


Still Ill

by Miku



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Discrimination, Dom/sub, Domestic Violence, Homophobia, Light BDSM, M/M, Prostitution, Racism, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-16 04:26:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 50
Words: 209,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miku/pseuds/Miku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DISCONTINUED.</p><p>[The first 10 or so chapters have been rewritten in the past and hence do not add up to the rest of the fic in some aspects.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rewritten (Jan 2015)

**Warnings:** this story contains mentioning and deals with topics such as that of racism, homophobia, paedophilia, rape, (domestic) violence, slavery, murder, prostitution mind-games etc.  
Do note that  **Arthur will be 12 years old**  for the biggest part of this fic,  **Eames is 30 years old**. There will be inappropriate relations between the both of them before Arthur has reached more common legal ages such as 16, 18 or 21. Please, if you have any issue with this, do not read any further!  
Also I would like to share that it goes without saying _I do not condone sexual acts upon minors_  and am not trying to romanticise the act of paedophilia! If you or anyone you know has fallen victim to this or any of the warnings I've mentioned, I wish you my best of luck and as much strength you will need to heal.

 **Enjoy**   _and please leave reviews for they do get me to write more and update faster._

* * *

 

 

 

_Victim or life's adventurer,  
Which of the two are you?_

_~_

 

 

 _Year 2067.  
_ _London, England._

 

The city, with its citizen-void streets and decay-littered alleyways, was but a ghostly shade of what it once had been; metropolitan of tourism, home of the royal. Amongst the nationwide demolition one pride remained. Albeit fractured, the Tower Bridge stood tall and proud. A colossal thorn in the eyes of those who'd fought the battled war, and inevitably had lost.  
It was London's sneer. London's warning to any nation greedy for robbing its civilization.

There were those convinced that the monument maintained the little pride that had been left intact over a rotten decade recently passed. Then there were those, rationality-led negativism in hand, who were certain that the bridge had done more bad than it had good.  
England's leaders preached about standing ground, about their pride which honestly had disintegrated a long time ago. The Tower Bridge, dramatically enough, enjoyed more protection from London's military than the backstreet citizens selves. This was only enforced were statistics of civilian deaths to be publicized, verifying the great amount of victims slaughtered by American forces far away from the Tower Bridge, hence far away from England's soldiers.  
Naturally, statistics were no longer of importance with a government fallen low enough to abandon its own people.

One would not be able to claim it unanticipated; that more Brits than Americans had tried to bomb the bridge down over the past twelve months. Though both nations desired the monument's downfall, it were for greatly different objectives.  
And most certainly one would not be able to claim it unforeseen that the English came to rebel against their own hierarchy.

Trust in the system was close to nonexistent whilst the border between the rich and poor continued to expand rapidly. Men who possessed plenty of whitewashed bills could go as far as purchasing their own military-trained bodyguard, or perhaps even rent one of the bunkers within London city (useful if Americans were to be spotted at the horizon for a redo of bloodshed).  
In the shadows of those who stood tall, existed beings who were required to practice patience until clouds would collide above the streets and water would pour down into various buckets, bowls and the hands of delighted children. All this just to be able to bathe and hydrate.

Nonetheless, England's regime had been one of the last in the world to fall. Therefore it had been the logical step to take, for other countries, to clasp hands with Britain and hope to be dragged along through the apocalyptic-scaled downfall of governments, societies and systems.  
Some had actually succeeded in this, only because the English had deemed them usable in the war against the United States.

Sharing nationalities and homes with Belgians, French, Germans and even a low percentage of Swedes, England was a powerful union to be standing last. Though, their biggest gain had been the Japanese whom had all but forgotten the help they'd received from Britain itself, a decade earlier when the third world war had only just begun.  
With the nukes burnt in memoirs, the Japanese were pleasurably humbled to be battling America with more force than they could've ever hoped for. After all, Pearl Harbor had not at all been enough to quench the salivating thirst of vengeance.

As the saying went; ' _with great power comes great responsibility_ ' and the nation had soon been overwhelmed by its own victory. This combined with an overdone sense of pride, made their reasoning blur, their believes haze and empathy wither. Priorities leaned towards the rich and the monuments, leaving citizens-in-need at the other side to fend for themselves.  
The word 'irony' would be an understatement to define facts that the people of the country had been there from the beginning, supporting their own nation, flags held high as a sign of power and trust in their leaders. Yet now, abandoned and left to survive on a minimum of wages, the English had nothing to lose and they smeared said irony back in the faces of the authorities; rebelling and sacrificing lives to out statements of disdain.

Nevertheless, England remained one of the most secure places left on the globe.  
Though they fought their own people -their rebels- with a disturbing lack of empathy, a society was still held in place. A wobbly line, waved as a maze through the back-streets of London, kept the city in one piece. The knots were messy and the ropes were starting to disintegrate at particular nooks and crooks, yet it bound together the little system left.

With professions such as prostitution, trafficking and burglary, the whitewashing business was at a never-ending roll from which the rich turned their gaze.  
' _What isn't known, will not kill_ ' and ' _What is seen, will be swiped from sight immediately, and more so mercilessly_ '.

That was England's saying.  
And that was England's doing in the year two-thousand-sixty-seven.

* * *

 

 

 


	2. Prologue.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rewritten (Jan 2015)

**Arthur & Alexandra.**

 

Alexandra had taken her son along when fleeing from their neighborhood -located within New York City- towards the heart of London.

Merely nine winters old and hardly a month after receiving the heinous news that his father -an air force sergeant- had passed away some time during the war, Arthur failed to care about what destination found place behind the horizon they were heading at.

With the United States crumbling at the seams, a woman without husband and with child would be granted more likability to survive by infiltrating Britain rather than sticking to grass roots. Though the lengthy trip overseas would be engulfed by hazards and challenges, it was still to be preferred over staying home long enough for American rebels or soldiers to burst through the front-door and bash their heads in for a slice of bread.  
Alexandra had often found foreigners' believes about Americans obnoxious, if not hurtful. 'Narcissistic', 'credulous' and 'barbarous' were just some of the descriptions used by those who were not native and possessed blind-eyed opinions of those different from them. However, nowadays, she lacked the will to ban these believes from her own mind. As fellow citizens spent more time fighting one another than they did other countries, there was not a leg left to stand on in order to proove neighboring lands and those overseas wrong.

There wasn't a government left. Leaders had dismounted off their metaphorical high horses. Presidents had been assassinated in broad daylight and supremacy had ceased to be. There were no longer buildings capable of being homes, no bedroom was secure enough to relish a well-needed night's sleep. Food was scarce and belonged to anyone violent and determined enough to claim it.  
America had become a dog eat dog civilization. Women and children were the first to suffer either death, exploitation or plain abuse, be it sexual or not.

Alexandra continued being painfully aware of the irony that one of their enemies' nations simultaneously had been the only one to have been preserved throughout the decade it had taken for the war to ease down (though it had yet to settle fully). The chance of Arthur and her ever making it to England was slim. Nonetheless, fundamental for their possible survival.  
It was well-known, particularly abroad, that large parts of central London possessed an amateurish system. Dirty jobs and even dirtier money existed to be obtained by citizens who hid out in the streets of the capital. And that alone was already more than America could ever offer a woman and her child.  
Hiding their nationality could create a fortunate life for the both of them. Nevertheless, it wouldn't be a walk in the park.

Along repressed pride, she experienced wary gratefulness and was determined to hold on to the latter. If only for her son.  
With that thought in mind, the young woman had been capable of packing their bags with trembling hands hardly ten minutes after she'd stabbed a man in the throat with a screwdriver. The burglar was left on her bedroom floor, limbs sprawled and a pool of crimson liquid surrounding his pale face.

Arthur had not questioned the reason as to why his mother's hands had been stained red or why she'd been shaking like a leaf. He'd remained quiet, helping her with carrying their luggage , and following her out in the middle of the night.

By the time Arthur figured out they were heading to the country that had sprouted men responsible for his father's death he couldn't withhold a cold tightness from wrapping itself all around his chest, squeezing and freezing anything within it.

The kid knew his parent had been shot by an English soldier, if he were to believe the black-on-white statement he'd read in a file his mother had hidden under her mattress. And he did. He did believe it. But God, how he wished he had not been able to.  
There wasn't much of an excuse -a possibility- for granting that desire, though. The red letters ' **DECEASED** ' had been stamped on the file's off-yellow cover; impersonal and confronting. To prove further point they'd taped one of his father's belongings to the back. Arthur had gently pulled the small, red die from underneath the messy patches of tape covering it, before rolling it between his fingers and into his palm.  
To this moment, Arthur remembered how often he'd seen his father fidget with the die in day to day life. He'd be fumbling with it while consuming breakfast, finger at it on the table as he was half distracted by the newspaper. And when not out in the open, the die would always be pocketed to his person.  
Bright enough to know it had been a kind of 'stress-ball' for his father, Arthur's heart had jumped up his throat when taking in how faded the white dots had become, how the corners had lost their sharpness to a rounding that came from years of thumbing at them. The die had not been like this when Arthur had last seen it; mere weeks before his parent had left to attend the war. It was a sadistic truth to comprehend that his father had managed to wear out the little cube in just a matter of months.

His throat had prickled with the bile crawling up to the back of his tongue and nose. His heart had seemed to shrivel in on itself until Arthur had felt as if he'd had a damn prune in his chest, useless and only stalling inevitable decay.  
He'd squeezed his father's die, foolishly hoping it'd somehow give him the answers to questions which remained too overwhelming, too chaotic to be asked properly, and then had shoved it into his back-pocket when noting Alexandra had been ascending the staircase outside the room. He certainly had been all but willing to have his mother catch him sneaking around in her room, finding out details about his father's death which she had selfishly refused to share, plead after plead.

Naturally, it'd be fair to say that Arthur had come to despise the English -the **enemy** \- with an even greater passion that night. Resentment, however, would be a too grand of a word to describe what he'd felt towards his mother for keeping so much information of his father from his one and only son, ... as if she'd wanted her dead husband to herself. Resentment or not, this bitter jealousy would remain with him for years to come.

In spite of that, the boy had empathized with his mother whose face had paled and aged rapidly over the past weeks as they'd emigrated their home-ground. The rims of her eyes had appeared permanently reddened, the brightness of which only highlighted the dark bags underneath. The corners of her mouth had seemed to have been tugged down by her own subconscious at all times, even when she'd smiled, genuine or not.  
It had been, and still was, a pitiful sight and an image which caused Arthur to snap his mouth shut in order to keep his rage, his grief, his secrets (and the awareness of _hers)_ to himself.

It took them at least a month to infiltrate England and another week or so before finding a small, askew house of which the door looked as if it'd drop off the second one would so much as glare at it. The windows -or lack therefore- appeared even more decayed.

The life they built, within those disintegrating walls, was humble luxury compared to the traveling they'd gone through. It didn't take long for Alexandra to carry a Cockney accent with so much ease it astounded her son. Better yet; fooled even the English.  
Arthur, though, got labeled mute by not only his parent but as well the few neighbors they dared to step into contact with after having resided a couple of months in London. It was best to hide the heavy American tongue that belonged to the boy as he'd yet to teach himself how to adapt a whole new dialect.

Yet, that wasn't what he spent his time on. On the contrary; Arthur's gray mass _refused_ , stubbornly, to adapt to the English around them.  
The metaphorical ache within his heart and the nauseating heaviness on his stomach had yet to ease down. His mind turned into itself, locking his thoughts within throbbing headaches which he hid from his mother as best as he could.  
The negativism, with no way out, soon enough accompanied the pounding within his skull and awakened the lingering spite beneath the surface of his conscious.

Arthur soon enough accepted that -not unlike his very own mother- he was not capable of having his smile reach to his eyes.

 _'Is this how mom feels? Is this what it's like to be an adult?'_ Arthur had once asked himself; knowing the answer was more likely to confirm his fears rather than soothingly disregard them.

Allowing someone, or oneself, to grow up too fast rarely would be considered a good plan. Often, this mistake would return to bite one back, sole question being 'when' and 'how'.  
After all, a child should never have to prematurely put an end to their innocence or lose their sense of security. Nevertheless, with no choice whatsoever and lacking the knowledge and tools to cope; this is exactly what Arthur did and evermore would have to do.  
Six months living in London later, he found a difficult time in grasping positivism within and around himself.

The most sinister lesson he'd get taught in England was that life -in all its glory- was not to be taken for granted.  
And he figured this out far sooner than any child should have to.

* * *

 

 

_February, 2068._

_one year later._

 

 

The streets were overwhelmed with not only the presence of hundreds of soldiers but as well the harsh noise of weaponry being fired and the commotion of shouts being barked. Three AM stormy weather roared over the city, rain muffling the tones that the wind carried up-and-through the various ruins in which citizens sheltered.  
These miserable elements went hand-in-hand with the present, despondent affairs.

On the second floor of a condominium that seemed to have lost enough bricks to create an entire new building with; Arthur lay cradled in his mother's arms. His ears were covered by her cold palms, eventhough this did not lessen the awareness of the atmosphere around them; stiflingly uncanny. Still and all, with a cerebellum not yet fully grown into grasping -let alone accepting- the world's viciousness, he managed to find some faith that the ending could be happy no matter what crossed Alexandra and his' path. He _had_ to believe this. He clung onto it, like a cat on a branch, refusing to let go considering what lied in the abyss was as unknown as it was frightening.

Self-deception was a talent which Arthur had quickly adapted in the past twelve months. He dreaded the day he'd be too levelheaded, too aware, too masochistic to allow himself his selective blindness.

Alexandra felt less optimistic because of a mind that had been taught to process events rationally and thus negatively. She had been brought up with a wooden ruler handled by an uncle who'd had perversions not able to be restrained when around little girls, Needless to say she'd been obliged to grow up twice as fast in order to give wrongdoing and injustice a place in her premature brain.  
To escape the toxic environment of her adolescence, she'd married young to a man who'd thankfully had been anything but the male role-models she'd been raised by.  
Their dearest boy was born only ten days after Alexandra's nineteenth birthday and she'd always consider that particular happening as the best one of her life.

Who would've ever been able to guess she'd be running for her and her child's life less than one and a half decades later? No one had been able to foresee the ugly and brisk turn the war had taken within mere months. Let alone anyone having ever speculated that England would become the only safety haven on earth, and a poor excuse for one.  
Only the young and gullible would not see through the dictators' ways. Each and every other citizen was aware that the safety and shelter granted to them in London's alleys was but a fancy business-card to attract allies and intimidate contenders. It was not at all about the people, however all chose to cover eyes with familiarity and move on with their required, daily routines.

But all tales came to an end, no matter good or bad.

Tonight this ending would likely occur.  
Alexandra blamed the pride-driven egoists for having nudged the patience out of England's leaders, day by day, week by week and month by month. With their failed attempts to attack their own system from the inside out and the various illegal activities of brewing alcohol and creating weaponry that no man who was not a member of the military was allowed to possess; the cloak had been lifted off the government's visage. The blind eye that had once been turned regained sight and a hunger for control roared through the streets that night because of those who'd ruined it for all.

What would happen wasn't certain as of yet, but Arthur's mother had caught wind of the stories describing similar happenings in the past in which England's force had been sent out to clean up the back-streets by shooting anything appearing deviant or so little as suspicious. She'd heard that, at moments such as these, women and children were not any safer than men and that staying inside, hiding, was the best chance of surviving the x amount of hours it'd take the English and Japanese soldiers to roam through London. After all, the city had been surrounded hours before the initial intrusion. Their brutality certainly matched a strategic tactic.

Alexandra, Arthur and all the neighbors nearby were trapped like mice.

“Mom-” Arthur's quiet voice disrupted her panicking thoughts as they'd come closer and nearer to the most likely and negative of outcomes that could take place that same night.  
She hushed him, pressing her hands more firmly on the shells of his out-sticking ears and proceeded to plant a light kiss on his forehead. Her lips were cold and dry, teeth barely managing to not clatter in nervosity.

Alexandra tried rather desperately to ignore the hisses in her head which tauntingly warned her that this could be the last time she'd ever hold her child, ever see him, hear him, feel him and smell him. The brunette squeezed her eyes shut and started to whisper prayers to a god she'd never really believed in. Yet, if one did exist... no better time than present would ever come to repent and simply plead to save them, or at the least spare her son.

The hairs on the back of Arthur's neck rose. His senses went beyond just picking up the cold that seeped into the room through one of its broken windows. There floated an eerie breeze within his mind, prodding parts of the subconsciousness towards the surface, splaying out truths and akin nightmares.

The both of them jumped at the loud shot as a gun got fired right underneath their second-floor window. Alexandra was undoubtedly sure that hadn't been a handgun, let alone a pistol, but far more possibly a musket of heavy caliber.  
Shouts and laughter followed suite before another weapon discharged, nearly succeeding in muffling the yelp of another -likely- victim. Their steps continued to walk a path over gravel that intentionally surrounded the building in order to betray intruders' presence with the crunch it left underneath the weight of feet.  
Not that this was of any issue to the tenacious soldiers.

Alexandra perked her ears, mentally following their direction and quickly realized the footsteps were rounding the corner of the building, towards the front door. She pulled her boy more tightly against her. Arthur's voice, muffled in the collar of his mother's dusty shirt, questioned what was going on. There came no reply other than a shush.  
It worried him. However, Arthur did not dare to press. Whether this was out of fear for his mother's reaction or simply for having the answer spelled out to him, he wasn't sure.

The thin walls -and cracks within them- barely managed to dampen the murmurs of anxious neighbors, or the bang downstairs as the front door was forced open by either shoulders or feet. Rustling of clothing, clicks of weaponry and thumps of boots running up wooden stairs followed straight after.

Arthur's fingers dug into the fabric of Alexandra's blouse, grateful when her hands returned to his ears. Yet, her cold palms didn't do much to hide the cacophony of tumbling furniture, whimpering victims and firearms being shot. The soldiers made quick work of cleaning out the building, not bothering to argue or prolong unavoidable capturing and deaths as they marched closer to Alexandra and Arthur's location.

This was it.

The veil had been lifted off their safety haven and the day which Alexandra had apprehended since that night she'd grabbed her boy and had fled away from their home and life as they'd known it, had at last arrived.  
England's maladjusted union had gotten fed up by resident criminals whom unfortunately -but predictably- hid and lived amongst those who desired no part in their wrongdoings.  
Not only was there weaponry and bombs being assembled of kitchen supplies and toxins, but as well there existed rumors of unauthorized alcohol-brewing in numerous households' basements. All of those were as illegal as the laundered money being distributed through gambling and brutal fistfights (of which the contenders were often pumped up by abusing mentioned banned alcohol, if not confounded stimulants).

Arthur's mother had never done anything to fight England. Being grateful for the little security it provided her and her child; she'd never longed to fight a system connected to her husband's death. Yet, privilege omitted... It just did not count.  
A grand amount of the low-class were destined to be exterminated. Americans in particular didn't stand a chance.  
If 'Yanks' would walk into an Englishman (whether or not he'd be a member of the military) rest assured they'd not live to tell. Undoubtedly so, this had been the number one reason as to why Alexandra had taught her son to not utter a word around any living being. Arthur were to hide his American tongue and leave his pride aside, all the while accepting that a man of any nationality -even their own- was the enemy.

 **No** exceptions.

Her son had been a gentle sweetheart before his father had passed. Yet, Arthur had grown, Arthur had changed and this was for the better. Nevertheless, it hurt Alexandra, as a mother, to witness her little boy turning more bitter than a child would be considered capable of. She couldn't stop him from despising the murderers of his father and hence soothed him every morning and night. Often she'd wish she could just take her son's heart in hand and calm it, stitch the wounds and disinfect the spite.

In her nostalgic aching, Alexandra held her boy more tightly against her, cursing herself for not having at least _tried_ to run, _tried_ to hide. She could feel the stiffness in his shoulders of which the blades protruded skin. Arthur's inhales were shallow, straining his scrawny chest and with every exhale his throat would gurgle softly.  
Arthur was unwell, to put it lightly, and this had been a factor in her decision to stay put and not take any more chances.

A selfishly hopeful thought had crossed her mind from the moment Arthur's pneumonia had worsened rapidly overnight a couple of weeks ago. Guilt accompanied Alexandra not a second later after she'd pondered her son being better off if he'd get taken away to be an Englishman's personal servant... because then, well, Arthur would receive the treatment he so desperately needed. There'd be medicine, food, water and surely they'd give him a place to rest just so he could regain his health and be a proper slave.

Yet, those last three words of her crazed thoughts had punched her in the gut immediately. The thought of her boy living a life of slavery and abuse with no one around to comfort him, terrified her.

Alexandra took a deep breath before she continued whispering lies against Arthur's forehead, about how everything was going to be alright and he did not need to fear when in her arms.  
These false promises only amplified their dishonesty when not a second later there sounded banging at the door, the hinges clattered with the force of the attached-wood being hammered. Holding her breath, palming the boy's ears, she watched the shadows underneath the door. Feet shuffled almost in sync with the murmuring voices of the men; low and monotone.  
And it was surreal. It took her breath away and made her heart skip several beats in its feverish attempt to pump blood and oxygen to her brain so it could release the necessary endorphins. The survival instinct caused her to grow nauseas, as if she was overdosing by a brain that seemed to prefer to melt out of her ears rather than come up with a solution.  
A solution which, regardless of hope, did seize to exist.

There'd been rumors of an inside attack having been planned in the little community they were located at. About a dozen foreigners, and a couple of natives, had been plotting to take out England's current governor and his right-hand this very weekend. So she had heard.  
These despicable egoists were very likely a big factor in having the military sent out and do a wipe-out in every alleyway, every corner, every home. As expected, the army had been one step ahead. She cursed the foolish men risking innocent lives for the sake of bombing down a building or shooting down persons of authority.  
Then what? Were they to succeed. What did they expect would happen?  
She doubted it'd ever get better than this.

Arthur jumped, as did Alexandra, when one of the soldiers barked in Japanese, his intonation leaving no doubt he was being a threat of impatient animosity.

The Japanese were even worse than the English.  
They lacked even more empathy. Enjoyed even more torture.  
They refused to learn a word of English, expecting that shouting or flailing a limb would be enough to communicate with frightened citizens. You could not reason with them, like you wouldn't be able to reason with a carnivorous animal. If a Jap wanted you dead, you'd have a bullet in your head before you could blink. Their patience, next to the English, was pretty much nonexistent.

These reminders alone were enough to spark her awake from the haze she'd forced herself into.  
Arthur's eyes were big when she got up, pulling him with her, and then whispering for him to hide on the toilet and to lock the door.

Why hadn't she tried to run, or hide? Why hadn't she been taking action up until the last second of threat?!  
In the back of her head she knew that either way it wouldn't have made a difference. Such as the others, they'd woken around two thirty in the night because of boisterous soldiers firing weapons and knocking down doors.  
The place had been surrounded before anyone had had the slightest idea of what was going to take place. Inside they had a chance of being overlooked... Outside would have them assassinated within minutes.

When she glanced over her shoulder, away from the door which by now was starting to creak and groan underneath the pressure of shoulders and knees being rammed into it, Arthur was still there.  
He stood straight-up, jaws clenched and eyes feigning confidence remarkably well.

“Arthur, go!” She hissed, pointing at the door only a few feet behind him, an urging hand pushing his shoulder.

“I'm not leaving you alone, mom. Not after dad!” He whispered angrily and Alexandra felt a cold sweat rushing over her.

“Arthur, for god's sake!” Her voice broke in a plead, mid-sentence. She could feel her heart pounding throughout her whole body, fingertips and tongue included. Hysterical thoughts of killing her boy before the Japanese could, dashed about in the back of her mind. Perhaps she should have. Killing her son with a pillow over his face would've been a hundred times less miserable than falling in the hands of the army to be sold as a slave or prostitute.

He was barely ten. He was just a kid. His future should not be this grim.

A dry sob escaped Alexandra and she cupped it with a hand over her mouth, as if she could swallow it back down before it'd reach the boy's ears. Arthur did tilt his head to the side, though, and his frown only deepened. Yet, she still found strength in her trembling legs to walk forward and push him back.

“Go, Arthur, please go, please.” Her hands were clammy, she had no doubt they'd leave damp prints on the boy's sweater were she to hold them there long enough.  
Though her knees buckled, Alexandra's eyes drilled into her son's, wordlessly begging him to listen.

Arthur faltered in the fashion of blinking away from his mother's gaze which on its turn caused Alexandra to heave a sigh.  
She saw some fight being lost in the boy's eyes, a shoulder moving to turn around and go to hide, and yes he could make it. She could distract these men from roaming through the tiny place. She could lie about living alone in here and go with them if they wanted to take her along. Alexandra could run, lure them out and though she knew this would not end well for her, it could tempt the men away from the room, the building, and then- Arthur.

Her son had not even lifted a single foot before the door swung open so harshly that the handle of it penetrated the wall behind it, preventing it from swinging back. As the world around her seemed to shatter like a glass house, the men carried on with their mission. Someone switched on the light, and it flickered as if it were unsure whether to ignite or pop. But as the room filled itself with an orange glow, a dozen soldiers strutted inside to immediately separate the woman from her boy.  
It all happened in a flash... No... It'd been more like a haze. Alexandra didn't feel anything but numbness from top to toe, didn't hear anything but a stretched-out high-pitched tone as her brain seemed to malfunction with the shock of current happenings. Barely aware her body was being pulled this way and that, the woman tried desperately to refocus her blurry vision as her mind attempted to shake her awake, screaming -albeit muffled- that she had a son to protect.

It was the hint of her son's scent (vanilla-like), entering nostrils, that allowed her senses to re-obtain function. The high tone in her ears started making way for the noise of her surroundings, thought it sounded like she was under water which wouldn't surprise her for she hadn't been able to take a breath for what seemed like various, life-threatening minutes. Her rippling vision went from a blur to a stabbing sharpness a couple of times as she turned her head this way and that, searching her child in the mass of shades around her.

However, it wasn't until she got smacked across the face that she came back to herself so abruptly it caused her knees to give out. Alexandra never did drop to the floor and the realization as to why caused her stomach to churn. Two soldiers were holding her up with tight and painful grips under the pits of her arms.

There was a man in front of her, only a couple of feet away and he stenched of cigars. His uniform differentiated from the others and going by the pins and ribbons on his shoulder, Alexandra assumed he was a commander. His mouth babbled a language she wasn't able to translate and even if she were, Alexandra wouldn't care because she had other things on her mind, such as looking around the room to find Arthur.

Her heart seemed to remember to beat -though it felt more like it fluttered- when she spotted her boy on their make-shift bed to the right. With a skin paler than a sheet of paper, Arthur looked even younger and sicker than he already was and at that exact moment she'd give up blood and organs to just hold him and wipe away that stunned expression on his face.  
The boy's eyes, which were wide and dark, didn't find his mother's gaze as he was too busy looking down the barrel of a gun pointed at between his eyebrows.  
The threat alone was enough for Alexandra to envision the sight of her child being shot to death only meters away from her and that's when she turned to the man in front of her, sobbing, pleading to not hurt her boy.

The Japanese man cocked a thin eyebrow at her English gibberish and a few glances were shared between the various soldiers in the room. Alexandra repeated her words, multiple times, ignoring the increased annoyance showing on the Jap's face as he replied to her with the same word repeatedly. His eyes narrowed to a point where she couldn't tell if they were open or not.  
How the hell was she supposed to understand his language?! Desperation shaped itself into anger and her face scrunched up in disgust as she spat the same plea to the man in front of her, over and over again.

“Let. Him. Go!”

It earned her another strike across the face, this time it stung enough for her to gasp, never mind she'd seen it coming. A hand wrapped itself in her hair before she was forced onto the floor, her knobby knees bruised as they impacted with the wooden boards beneath.

What followed next was a deafening silence which in any other circumstance could've been appreciated for its tendency to calm those within it. However, in this setting, it only seemed to press onto her ears so viciously Alexandra actually feared for her ears to implode. Her instincts were working overdrive. Anything she could process was processed too violently as it bordered on a reality that was just... well, _too real_. She could taste the tanginess in the air. She could feel the escapism bleed out.

As was common for the average emotionally-constipated member of military, the man who'd struck Alexandra didn't bother having his or her words translated and instead found more interest in pacing around the room, slowly, methodologically.  
Some frames, holding creased pictures of herself,her boy and her husband, were flicked off the wall to the floor by the pacing man's finger. The glass shattered as it impacted with the floor beneath and he refolded his hands behind his back, shaking off some glistening shards from his boot before he made way to the dresser next the bed. It missed a paw, its left-side tipped far lower than its right.  
She'd be frustrated by this were she to own ornaments or knick-knacks, ideal to be displayed upon such furniture. But she had none of those and as the soldier pulled open a drawer, Alexandra knew he'd not find possessions of significance in there. Except for some utensils, a notebook and apparently a broken yo-yo, it lacked any blackmail material. Most men in the room snorted along with the Jap who'd just retrieved the toy from one of the drawers, trying to drop it from the string which snapped not a second after. It rolled between Arthur's feet underneath the bed.

Arthur watched the toy until it was out of sight before he finally gazed up at Alexandra. With their eyes locked, the atmosphere tilted down, raising the hairs on the back of Alexandra's neck. She pressed her lips together, a secret message that he needed to be completely quiet and not utter a word. He'd been taught this from the start of their 'new life', but Arthur could be explosive, could burst and make it all worse.  
He'd gotten this from her. This spice, wit and passion reminded Alexandra of herself when she'd been younger. His father had been far too gentle to leave such characteristics upon his son. Arthur had inherited the man's handsome looks as well as the carefulness in which he'd keep to himself when not exploding in anger. Alexandra's heart throbbed at the memory of her partner and Arthur's parent. She had no doubt that if the boy would be granted a chance at life, he'd step into his father's footsteps and become a powerful and intelligent man.

When the commander walked back over, Alexandra's thoughts paused in favor of watching him move and coming to a stop right in front of her. His knees were at level with her nose and up close she noticed a dark stain on the fabric of his pants. It didn't take a genius to identify it as blood.  
At the snap of his fingers, Alexandra got lifted up and she grew nauseas whilst swaying on her feet. If it weren't for the men holding her, the young woman had no doubt her knees would give out within mere seconds. Her head was heavy and dizzy with the blood being pumped through her system at a rapid pace. Her heart beat so fast, so loud, that it took her breath away and caused the nerves within her body to fibrillate as if her very existence was slipping into cardiac arrest.

Nonetheless she was brave enough to look the Japanese man in the eyes when he tapped two fingers against her chin, demanding her attention. His voice was surprisingly smooth, young even, when he asked her something in broken English. However, the stench of his breath and the proximity of his physique prevented Alexandra from tuning in right away. It took her too long to decipher what he was saying through his lazy foreign drawl, and it earned her another hand in her hair. This time it was the commander himself who grabbed a fistful of her brown strands, rather than the soldier to her left whose fingernails dug sharply in her upper-arm.  
Other than a hiss, Alexandra granted this man no satisfaction in empowering the authority which he abused.

His hold tightened and with it her eyes squeezed shut for a split second before they darted around the room, foolishly trying to find a soldier who'd clarify this man's broken English.  
Most of them looked awfully young, faces expressionless, each having a rifle dangling off a shoulder and handguns in hand. Their stares were as void of compassion as her heart was of hope.

The commander, after a spread-out silence, released his hold in favor of grabbing her face, fingers digging so deep they touched her teeth from the outside in.  
He repeated his question then, calmer this time and after a couple of trembling, yet deep, breaths she understood.

“London.” She lied, the word disfigured by the digits squeezing the muscles of her mouth. When he let go of her face, Alexandra repeated the answer just to make sure he'd understood her whereabouts. The Jap blinked slowly though his gaze did not falter.  
Her American tongue found no difficulty in manipulating itself into the overly English dialect. She'd only have to clip some tones and roll her tongue more thickly than it already did in its familiar Yank-lingo. Even as it was unlikely for this man to note any difference between the two kinds of English, not all men in the room were illiterate Japs.

While the commander gnawed on the inside of his cheek, his sight traveled down her body and then crawled back up slower than it had went down. As a woman she understood what to fear from men like these, from men in general. The threat of her pride being ripped away from her caused her to straighten up, even though her 'five feet five' would never reach the towering level of the Jap (unusually tall for his nationality).  
Her nostrils flared and fingers folded into white-knuckled fists. Vaguely she awed over the similarity with her own son's earlier body-language when he'd expressed that self-worth driven stubbornness as she'd tried to have him hide. Arthur was not one to back down, even when knowing he'd lose... And apparently, this as well, was an aspect carried over to him by herself. This characteristic was often not beneficial to one's survival. The arrogance that seemed to be engraved in her features as well as her son's only fueled those craving to dislike them. It were a perfect excuse to beat mentioned aura right off of their faces.

Expectedly the commander was easily aggravated and her stomach dropped when she watched him glance to his left. Alexandra followed his line of sight, her throat dry as she swallowed, observing Arthur who was still seated on the bed. Her body went stiff and her lungs took a strike on squeezing oxygen through her veins.

“He?” The Jap asked, jerking his head a bit towards Arthur, not bothering to point.

“London.” Her reply was clipped and, thankfully, the trembling in her stomach didn't reach up to her voice.

“Family?” He queried right after, his eyes coming to rest back on hers and for all she was worth, Alexandra failed in reading the man's stone-cold face.

“Yes. My child.”

The silence that poured into the room after her reply was loaded heavily, unspoken threats swirling around and shoving negative prospects into her head. This wasn't going to plan. Not that she had a plan... But Alexandra just dearly desired to keep all attention away from her boy.  
Unlike she'd expected, the commander only shrugged with disinterest, murmuring some foreign words which made a few men in the room snigger.

She glanced back to her right and watched Arthur as he was still seated on the bed, quiet and deceitfully calm. The gun was still pointed at his head, though by now the boy had either tired or scared away from staring down the barrel and instead he gazed at the floor.  
Though Alexandra had not expected it possible, he appeared even paler than five minutes ago. His skin was so white one could note the gray undertone to it. It only reminded her of how sick he was. His breathing wheezed softly and he occasionally stifled coughs, fearful of what would happen were he to out a sound.  
Seeing him surrounded by armed men, only a couple of feet distanced from her, scrawny and cold and scared, was the most horrendous sight and happening she'd ever experienced. Not being able to hold him or tell him he'd be alright, that everything would be okay, was a sensation she'd never be able to express into words. The agony she was going through right now would easily overpower an eternity in hell and Alexandra could not imagine a more horrible moment in life than that exact moment.

As a mother, it was a brainless fact that she'd give her life for that of her child, her flesh and blood... her _baby_. She'd sacrifice herself to years of heinous torture if it'd mean Arthur would be okay.  
However, she could not do a thing without risking _him_ being killed.

Her gaze flickered back to the Jap in front of her who'd been staring at her as she'd went on a mental roller-coaster where the peaks had been misery and the lows despair.  
The commander observed her face, Alexandra hadn't a doubt he could see the redness of her nose and the wetness pooling in the rims of her eyes. Her body had sagged, the psychological turmoil too heavy to be carried on her shoulders. It was the silence, the anticipation and suspense, the clock ticking away, which just screwed with her brain and made the images on her inner eye-lids turn more brutal with each time she blinked.

A sigh left the man's lips, his mouth grimaced into an expression that bordered on boredom before he nodded at the soldiers holding her up.  
They let go immediately and Alexandra huffed as she sagged onto the floor in a boneless heap.

The murmur of rustling clothes, footsteps and hushed conversations filled the air around her almost immediately after she'd collided with the floor. Men moved around, their boots on the wooden floorboards sent through tremors which she could feel vibrate from shins to kneecaps.  
As she peeked through long strands of her hair which had fallen over her face when she'd ungracefully toppled down, Alexandra could tell a great part of the soldiers were leaving the room. At first thought this might've sound encouraging but she knew better.

The commander who was still located right in front of her, lifted his foot only to place the tip of his shoe on top of one of Alexandra's hands, splayed out on the floor. Whilst holding her breath, tensing every muscle in her small body, she listened to the Jap barking around orders. His voice rung loud in the small room, as if the tones bounced off the walls only to slam into her eardrums right after.  
He wasn't talking to her, other soldiers replied to him and when she glanced up through her lashes could see him pointing at her son, back to her, then back to Arthur.  
Alexandra had never desired more to be fluent in Japanese than she did right now.

The cacophony of movement and speech drummed through her chest, heart pulsating desperately though failing at pumping endorphins out of the brain. She was all out of those. She could feel it in her bones and her mind as she grew tired and every square inch of her, inside and out, ached.

Surprisingly enough the commander didn't quite lean his weight on the foot on her hand, though this form of 'taking pity' was hardly a reassurance. When he removed his boot, he turned on his heels and marched out of the room as well and Alexandra could hear and partially see that he and some of his soldiers descended the staircase to leave the building.

Alexandra's mind pounded pain and thoughts violently into her head as her eyes carefully roamed the room, not sure why no one was moving or talking no longer. There remained a handful of men in t he space, their energy suffocating the atmosphere by just being present and radiating threat through the eerie calm that had cascaded over them.

One of the soldiers who'd been holding her before had stayed right behind her and Alexandra swore she could feel his eyes stabbing daggers into her skull. This assumption was confirmed when a hard object nudged against the back of her head and it didn't take much imagination nor intelligence to note there was a gun pointed at her (more so _against_ her).

Arthur, to her right, was being maneuvered from the floor to stand on his feet and Alexandra felt her throat getting dryer than it had been before. The slight gasp rasped her windpipe though she hardly felt any physical discomfort for her attention was a hundred percent focused on her son who stood, small and unsure, next to a much taller soldier. The man's hand was large on the kid's bony shoulder but he didn't seem to be squeezing hard enough to hurt Arthur, his attention distracted by the conversation he was leading with one of his companions.

What were they plotting? One of them being Caucasian, Alexandra assumed they must be talking in English, but their voices were too hushed for her to grasp. Going by the looks of Arthur, unmoving, it was likely their language wasn't as close to home as Alexandra assumed it to be.  
Speaking of her son, she tried intensely to get his attention, to get him to look up and meet her gaze. It wasn't like she could do anything to save either one of them, but she could tell Arthur's 'capturer' was ready to leave the room with him and she was desperate to just catch his eye, smile at him... reassure him, dishonestly so.

Alexandra begged any higher power to allow her this last chance to be a mother to her boy.  
Arthur did look up when the soldier started urging him to walk towards the door and his brown eyes were wide and dark. He looked bewildered, facts and fears finally having penetrated his awareness. And what was she to do but smile at him, mouthing soundlessly that everything was going to be okay. When her lips were read by her son, she couldn't quite tell whether it was anger or uncertainty that flashed over his features for a split second.  
Nevertheless, his face went blank and he stopped in his tracks.

It was a miracle he didn't get slapped or worse because of his disobedience and he seemed to be lucky with the Eastern-looking soldier as he only patted his shoulder and whispered something into his ear, expression soft but unreadable.  
With no longer a gun being pointed at him, Arthur shook his head with a scowl, shaking the man's hand off him, turning to face Alexandra who was still observing the scenery to her right with a heart that had seized its rhythm in order to erratically burst about in her chest to the point she feared it'd beat itself up her throat and force itself out of her mouth.

“Tell him to leave.” A voice behind Alexandra urged calmly. It was the man who had the gun pointed at the back of her head and by the sounds of it he seemed to be of Russian origin.

Alexandra was painstakingly aware of which events were about to take place the moment her son would exit the room. Alexandra knew that the two men to her left, leaning against the windowsill as they shared a cigarette and flashed shit-eating grins towards her, were to be feared much more than the ones flaunting weaponry.  
And, Alexandra knew she'd never be able to prevent her fate, she'd never be able to put a stop to the abuse that awaited its time to shine just around the corner.

The single one thing she could do, though, was to have Arthur leave in order to spare him witnessing his mother's suffering. He deserved that... It was the most she could do. It was the last she could do.

“Baby, listen to them.” Her voice was weak, caving underneath the oppression of the male figures within her proximity.

Arthur opened his mouth but snapped it shut when remembering his image of muteness. However, he did shake his head left to right, slow, wide-eyed.

Knowing what was in store for her, Alexandra started to crumble at the seams, her nose prickled with held back tears and her heart paced up when the man behind Arthur pinched the bridge of his own nose in impatience. He grabbed the back of Arthur's collar, forcing the kid to look up at him and then nudged his chin towards the door.

This minuscule display of violence seemed to set on course a domino-effect and the soldier behind her huffed a sigh, before grabbing Alexandra by the hair, once more, to pull her up her feet. She yelped, out of surprise rather than pain, watching fearfully as the men to her left pushed off the sill, one of them flicking a cigarette out of the window.

The moment her feet were planted firmly onto the floor, the hand in her hair disentangled itself in favor of wrapping fingers around her throat, pulling her back against the man's chest. She swallowed down a whimper, batting her eyelashes to stop her tears from slipping free. The last thing she wanted was for Arthur to see her cry. If this were the last moment they'd ever see each other... she just... she just couldn't cry and leave him with that image and have it brew and stir and drown him over the years. That is... if the kid would be granted another chance at life.

Alexandra reached up a weak hand to take hold of the man's wrist though she doubted it would have any effect to loosen the grip he had on her.  
It wasn't until she could feel the sharp pain of a gun being jabbed into her side that she kicked her tactics up a notch, her voice firming, though framed by a watery smile.

“Leave. I'll follow later. You just need to leave right now, sweetheart. Everything will be fine. It'll all be okay if you just leave and listen to these men, alright, baby? Be good and I'll see you later.”

Alexandra was aware that Arthur knew she was lying. But he was young and afraid and thankfully his mind preferred to blind itself for just a moment, assuring Arthur to believe his mother and just have faith in what she'd requested of him.

How she hated to lie to him, how she feared that Arthur would never quite forgive her when grasping the deception she'd spewed just seconds ago.  
However... That's what mothers do. They want their children to be happy and not have a worry in mind. Granted, white lies often took on scales that'd have them lean far more to a blackening, yet... Alexandra just wanted to spare him from any pain.

That's all she desired and she made sure to whisper this to the soldier who was breathing into her ear. Naturally he didn't reply to her whatsoever, refusing to ease her mind as she watched Arthur swallow down instincts in order to allow being pushed outside.

As Arthur reached the door, planting heels to keep still and looking over his shoulder with wide, wet eyes, Alexandra only widened her smile. His lips were white as he'd pressed them close, afraid to out a sound and more so refusing to return the false expression of hers. It broke her heart though she could do no more.

“I'll see you later, darling.” Even as she'd managed to hold back tears, her voice broke mid-sentence and along with it Arthur's face fell into a grimace before he got shoved into the hallway hard-handedly. And that was it.  
He was gone.  
She could only stare at the few soldiers following her son out. She could only hear their footsteps descending the staircase until the front door of the building closed with a slam and drowned out her boy from her life.

Time to grief wasn't allowed as the hand around her throat released its grip in order to shove her harshly, having her topple down onto the floor. Alexandra barely processed the pain in her elbow on which she'd landed to break her fall and though tears finally streamed down her face because she'd lost a son to whom she hadn't even been able to say 'goodbye', she still found the fight within her to battle whichever soldier trying to pin her down.  
A frail woman, emaciated and emotionally drained, was no match for any of the three men in the room, let alone when combined. She did fight, shouting and cursing, scratching any skin she could reach and kicking out her legs but when the 'Russian' booted her against the jaw, everything came to a halt.  
The pain was protrusive and accompanied with a thousand little white stars dancing in her sight. Alexandra's mouth went numb immediately and the tangy taste of blood dripped down her throat and the back of her nose.  
She coughed.

By now, her consciousness had grown exhausted and craved to slip into a deep sleep but for all that she was worth, Alexandra could not and would not pass out.  
With a foot planted on her stomach, assuring she'd stay on the floor were she not desire to suffer a nauseating blow to her abdomen, the men stood around her.

Alexandra took deep, shaky breaths, fighting her mind as it seemed to blank out every other second, vision going black to blurry and back. Nonetheless, her eyes were focused enough to watch the three men sharing glances with one another, raising eyebrows and shrugging shoulders, grumbling foreign words.

The Caucasian guy who'd been smoking at the window with his Japanese comrade, stepped forward, flanking her legs with his feet and then started to unbuckle his belt. It was the clank of the buckle being undone that woke her violently from her dizziness and half-conscious state. She tried to scramble up but this only left her with yet another kick to the head.  
Her vision flickered, white dots sparking around in sight and this time she could feel a warm liquid leaking from her nostril. Alexandra wasn't foolish enough to believe it was anything but blood.

At that moment she knew she'd not get out of this alive. She could feel this, rationally knew it even with her thoughts swimming around in a swollen brain and fractured skull.  
However, she'd be damned to have these filthy pigs feel her up and rob her sense of self-worth before inevitably being sent into her grave.

It was one thing to be murdered. It was a whole other to be raped.

For a second she thought she'd not be able to fight this. There was barely strength left within her to lift a finger and her head spun so hard she could feel bile stinging low in her esophagus. Her face was numbed and she'd expected to be in more pain after having been kicked into the head two times.  
But she barely processed any physical sensation, her system in shock and her blood rushing in a confused pattern not certain where to go. There were only thoughts, albeit messy and clipped. And then there were instincts which floated to the surface as Alexandra watched the man above her lower himself onto his knees, above her face.

The last thing she thought about was how happy she'd been with her husband and Arthur in the past, no matter how short-lived it had been... She'd been blessed and her family would never fail at curling up her lips into a smile. Nor would they ever not succeed in warming her heart.  
The last thing she experienced were her teeth sinking into soft, smelly flesh, digging deep enough to feel skin break and rip, blood spilling from the injuries.  
Alexandra reveled in the high-pitched screams of the soldier on top of her. He sounded like a pig being slaughtered and even though her hearing had gone muffled by the internal damage she'd suffered just moments ago, it was a grandly satisfying noise.  
The last thing she tasted and smelled was blood and the red of it smeared across her teeth as she bared them in a wide smile.

Alexandra closed her eyes.  
And a bullet between her eyebrows followed suite.

* * *

 

 

 

Arthur analyzed the last hour in his mind repeatedly until he felt as if he were riding a merry-go-round of self-torture.

The pace he was obliged to match with the two soldiers transporting him through London's maze of alleys, was unhurried and thus allowing him enough time and freedom to choke himself on his thoughts. Nevertheless his lungs ached with the cold sting of February mist and his windpipe rasped on each in- and exhale. His body was appreciative of the slow walk, though his mind could barely stand the suspense, the anticipation of what would happen to him.  
Still, his brain continued rewinding, no matter the presence of enemies so nearby, nor the pain in his chest and back as his lungs seemed ready to blow at any second.  
Arthur recalled the grief on his mother's face, which she'd hidden so bravely -yet poorly- behind a trembling smile and glossy eyes. Her last words maintained their repetitiveness like a broken record screeching in the boy's eardrums. Placing hands over his ears would not work -unfortunately enough- as her voice had planted its seed in the gray mass within his skull. It'd soon grow sprouts of antipathy and eventually blossom into detestation for his mother, himself and all human beings.

 _'I'll see you later, darling.'_ She'd promised.

The gunshot that had followed less than five minutes later had told Arthur otherwise. He'd known he'd never see her again. He knew she'd been killed and she had been aware of such... however had chosen to lie to him, nonetheless.  
Such as she'd done with the death of Arthur's father, Alexandra had refused to spill truths and instead had coated him in a silence which only would get broken every now and then by lies.

The kid was aware his mother would never have bad intentions towards him. Her only mission in life had been to keep him safe and happy, but alongside this she had kept him dumb. The American pride that'd puff his chest when in confrontation, could not accept the fashion in which his mother had raised him.

He _had_ in the past.

Arthur loved his mother, would always love her... But as the bitterness had taken a hold of his conscience, the boy could no longer be soothed by the reassurance that she'd done what she'd believed was best for him.  
Because well... he was here now, in the hands of the enemy, illness ready to drag him towards the grim reaper, with no one at his side to tug him back.

Good intentions, you see, did not always lead to good outcomes.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut for a second, trying to pinch away his headache, before glancing over his shoulder towards the two soldiers behind him who were having a rather heated discussion with one another.  
It were happenings like these which prevented the boy from giving up just yet. His sense of survival and the sheer stubbornness alongside it, caused the boy to always be on a lookout for ways out, for plots and routes.  
Hope wasn't how he'd describe it for this emotion was one he hadn't experienced in a genuine fashion for longer than he could recall. However, Arthur was a sore loser, fired up with disdain towards possible winners other than himself.  
The two men behind him were currently winning and the boy was not going to let this happen without a fight.

With muscles tensed and his awareness as clear as it could get, Arthur remained calm as the three of them carried on walking over cobblestones towards a place or fate not yet known to the boy himself. Even with his passion, his spirit and urge to survive, Arthur was bright enough to await the right moment and not rush anything if not a hundred percent certain it'd lead to saving his own skin successfully.  
A bullet, after all, would be quicker than his own feet could ever pace.

Carrying that thought in mind, Arthur peeked over his shoulder once more and eyed the rifles dangling off each of the soldiers' backs. He tried to calculate how much time it'd take for them to reach around, unlock, aim and fire.  
The streets were empty, which could work in his favor for it'd be easier to run through the maze of back-streets. Nonetheless, it'd also be easier for the men to follow him, their legs being longer and stronger than Arthur's.  
His eye caught the Japanese man's frown and he looked back in front of him when the soldier clacked his tongue at him in annoyance. They were moody but rather distracted as well with their argument. Going by how the hairs on the back of his neck rose, Arthur was fairly certain they were discussing a subject including -if not starring- himself.

Nerves and senses ached with the clarity he desperately kept at bay, The boy could not afford a second of losing his attention were he to plan to escape somehow, someway. Arthur's knees buckled every few steps and he could feel a fever crawling from his toes up to his spine. He had to try soon before his body gave out and he'd pass out in front of these two armed men.

About fifteen minutes in, the two soldiers stopped abruptly in their steps, one of them grabbed the back of the kid's collar in order to have him stand still as well. Over the past minutes their argument had seemed to intensify and though they had yet to shout at one another, Arthur could hear in the barks that they were moments away from a fight.  
Turning around to watch the men scowl and growl at each other, faces growing red and noses scrunched up in snarls, Arthur took careful breaths to calm his heartbeat and focus on a way out.  
The cold was biting at him but Arthur could feel the sweat rising to the surface as he grew hotter and weaker with whatever sickness it was that he'd been suffering from for weeks now. Whilst blinking the exhaustion from his eyes, Arthur watched the men flail their arms about, punctuating their words, the argument escalating into physical dominance which would hopefully lead to a fist-fight.

Three seconds later it did.  
The taller one of the two slung his arm and his fist impacted with the other guy's cheek. The sound was dull and flat, unlike what Arthur had expected it to sound like. A silent stare-down followed and the boy kept dead-still because he'd seen the attention in the taller man... He knew he maintained an eye on him no matter the fight with his partner.

To his surprise the 'victim' turned around and left after having spat a phlegm onto the ground right in front of the other man's boots.  
Being alone with this Jap was as scary as it was auspicious. Arthur leaned more to the prior of the two emotions as his eyes met those of the soldier who at that moment busied himself with reaching in his jacket to retrieve what Arthur feared to be a pistol or knife or anything else to slaughter him with in the middle of the streets and night.

Naturally, Arthur heaved a sigh when the man wiggled a pack of cigarettes between their gazes, a smirk on his lip, amused by the boy's fear.

They resumed their path after the Jap had lit one of the sticks, smoking in silence as he walked behind Arthur. This time, though, he'd chosen to wrap long fingers around both of Arthur's wrists, locking them together. The boy wasn't sure whether the Jap did this because he was unsure on his own and preferred to keep him restrained now that he hadn't a companion with them on the journey, or simply because he wanted physical contact to intimidate him. That last assumption seemed more likely as it'd be perceived foolish to not clasp the captive's wrists in secure hand-cuffs were the soldier to desire 'playing it safe'.

Either way, it was plain crudeness that influenced the man to start 'accidentally' stepping on the kid's heels every other second. Arthur winced each time, scowling behind his bangs and grinding his teeth. Anger coursed through his veins but even the rage boiling in his core could not prevent Arthur from coming up with a plan when the Jap started to nudge him in the backs of his knees with the fronts his own.

The physical contact caused an improvised plotting to seep into the boy's brain and he didn't second-guess himself whatsoever.  
He went for it. Straight away.

When the Jap once more nudged him in the knee, Arthur went slack, head to toe. Obviously not having expected the extra weight as the boy's body sagged into a dead weight; the soldier's hand slipped from Arthur's wrists, though his reflexes were quick enough to have a fist wrapped in the back of the boy's sweater before his face could kiss the gravel beneath.

The Jap hesitated as he held him mid-air; confused, surprised and surely assuming the boy had passed out. Hence, when wrapping both arms around Arthur's waist to go and lift him up, his balance transcended into an off-kilter nonchalance.  
Arthur calculated the strength and placement of the man holding him, chest plastered against his back. His body-heat found no difficulty traveling through the layers of fabric in order to warm up Arthur's skin. He felt as if he were on fire, everything burned and hurt and the kid realized he had to act quick before his body would simply cave.

Though the Jap was nearly twice his size (Arthur being a short little bud), armed overbearingly and not as sick as a dog, the young kid was convinced he could gain the upper-hand if he played dirty.  
And that's exactly what he did the moment he could feel the man readjust his grip, off-balance, going to lift him up to his feet.

Thoughts flashed and jumped through the kid's brain within the second it took for him to act out his plan.  
Arthur knew he had to escape. He knew there only awaited abuse and/or premature death were he to tag along with the enemy.  
Arthur thought about his mother who'd been breathing oxygen to a heart that had pulsated warm blood through her veins only hours ago before she'd seized to exist. He thought about his father who'd been his hero from his own birth to the man's discriminatory death.

Memories played in front of his eyes like sceneries of the books he'd read in the past.  
The perfect family. They'd been the perfect American family until the godforsaken English had ruined it all. Arthur had loved and had _been_ loved.  
His roots were left behind to rot and to be filthied by the prints of Britain's heavy parade.  
The -at one time- delicate novel of his childhood had been ripped chapter by chapter, page by page until the words had ended up scrambled and battered in the hands of the foe.

Arthur would rot in hell before allowing the opponent to rewrite his story.  
Arthur would burn alive in the fire which once had roared through the whole of New York, undoubtedly having taken his old home with it. He'd die in the smoldering ashes of his ruined bedroom before he'd ever, EVER, allow a single man to reel him into capture and away from pride and freedom.

The boy huffed, heart beating so hard it felt as if it'd break his ribcage from the inside out at any given moment now.  
It wasn't until the split second in which Arthur sensed the leverage to be on point that his eyes snapped open and his ears rang with an earlier forgotten memory of his father. His voice sounded clear within the shells as if he was standing next to him, right here and now. Though he'd forgotten a part of the man's voice, at this exact moment it was back, fully present and Arthur could feel his heart clench. Unlike his mother, Arthur's father had been a calm, calculated and rational soul. Nonetheless, he'd been a man of means, a warrior of standards and he'd taught Arthur early on that you always had a choice. That you always had something in your hands to work with. That you always were responsible for your own destiny, to a grand degree.  
The man had taught Arthur that hard times weren't the problem in life, but more so the way one would deal with mentioned tough times could be exactly that; the problem.

Or the _solution_.

“ _Victim, or life's adventurer? … Which of the two are you?”_

He breathed the words of his father, dragging them over his dry tongue to chant them over and over again until the world came back into focus and an answer had been chosen. Arthur would never be the victim and thus he performed.

With eyes squeezed shut and memory chanted, Arthur folded his fingers together in a two-handed fist, collected the last of strength he had left in his sick body and then swung his elbow up- and backwards as hard as he could manage.

The assault had been a god-sent lucky shot. The man's cigarette flew from his mouth with a huff, sparks of ashes darting over glossy cobblestones before it sizzled in a puddle of rainwater. The soldier's voice broke into a guttural groan as he doubled over, letting go of Arthur so he could cup himself where Arthur's elbow had impacted.  
For a split second Arthur wondered if the man had been unwillingly castrated because of him. And without guilt or conscience, the boy hoped he had.

Arthur collected himself in order to start running but to his horror could feel the soldier's arms re-wrap around his waist. The hold was pathetically weak as he tried to lift him but ended up tripping forwards and on another impulse the kid threw back his head. The crunch that followed was loud and for a second Arthur didn't know whether he'd fractured his own skull or had broken the man's nose (such as he'd hoped for).  
Arthur dropped onto the floor as the tall man let go in order to retreat and when he looked over his shoulder, grew slightly nauseated at the sight of the Jap holding his nose out of which blood seemed to gush, spilling over his mouth, hands and throat.

In the past he'd heard of how men of the army often used drugs in order to be alert at all times and to need far less rest for the amount of battles they'd fight and confrontations they'd experience. Medication often thinned blood and even though Arthur couldn't care less if this man would die or not, it was still obscene to see how much of the crimson liquid could leak from a face.

When the Jap toppled down onto the ground, difficulty deciding whether to cup his broken nose or assaulted groin, and started to cry like a child; Arthur took a deep breath, cleared his head and fled.

He darted into the first side-street on his path and then Arthur ran, ran, ran harder and longer than he'd ever could've imagined himself being capable of.  
His mind was joyous over his victory, even though he could barely grasp the fact he'd actually escaped! He glanced over his shoulder a couple of times but could see no sign of anyone following him.  
The amount of luck on his side was blissfully high.

With a body a tad too small for a ten year old, Arthur squeezed himself through the narrowest of gaps between houses and dumpsters. He led a maze which the soldier -were he to recover- would never be able to follow. Arthur knew the short-cuts, the crooks and corners and before he knew it he'd reached the other far end of his block.

However, he did not stop.

His lungs burned as his chest heaved, his legs wanted to cramp as they were demanded to move so fast, muscles constantly sore by the lack of food, sleep and medical care for months to no end.

But he kept going.

His skin prickled hot and cold, his head was filled with cotton and his sight was hazed. Arthur's heart fluttered with adrenaline but as well elation.

And he kept going.

Arthur continued to run, making his way through the maze of London's back-streets which were now empty unlike only an hour ago. He was lucky. So damn lucky. His survival instinct voiced over the pessimism deeper within which already started to ask ' _why_ '... Why live. What for?

As the boy ran, he thought of his mother, thought of his father, thought of his future.  
He was alone, and the world was far more cruel than he had ever expected it to be.

Yet, he maintained. Couldn't stop.  
He had to live, even if only for vengeance. Arthur felt a human desire to survive and it was an emotion with such intensity that he doubted he'd ever experience a sensation as breathtaking as this one, today.

This was the night in which Arthur became self-aware, in which Arthur grasped the meaning of trust and independence. And in which he taught himself how to look further than his nose was long.  
It was the night that took a great part of the child within him away. But as well did a greater side of him topple into a premature adulthood that only could be witnessed within those who'd suffered in their existence.

That night, until the sun began to rise, Arthur didn't cry nor did he grieve.  
He realized that though life would always take and never give, it was but a challenge for him to fight and win what he **deserved**.

For what his mother and father had deserved, yet lost.

**Life.**

* * *

 

 


	3. Part I.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rewritten (Jan 2015)

** Eames. **

 

_London, England.  
January, 2070._

 

_two years later._

 

“Colonel?”

The voice, though it was soft, wavering and uncertain, broke rather easily through Eames' focus which had been directed at one of the many case-files he'd been working on for months. Though he welcomed the interruption from the tasks at hand which he'd been procrastinating for far too long, Eames still optioned to display some degree of annoyance. Thus, with a huff, he placed thumb and index-finger over his closed eyelids, trying to press away the headache that had been occupying his skull, overstaying its visit, for days if not weeks.

“What is it, Jack?” Eames questioned the young man's visit, voice gruff, before glancing at his guest from the corner of his eye.

The kid, Jack, stood still for a moment, his mouth gaping and closing like a fish on the dry and Eames reveled in the power he possessed to have men doubt their own skin when so little as being glared at by him. Granted, Jack was barely in his mid-twenties and seemed to have a subdued nature to him. Sadistically enough, this was one of the perfect components to mix up with Eames' instinctive dominance and self-taught confidence.

Such as Eames had foreseen, the young soldier snapped his mouth shut after his fifth attempt to pronounce whichever sentence it was that he'd wanted to form.  
Most likely a question... Even more predictably a request that would lower Eames' mood beyond the depths it would be settled twenty-four seven.

Exhaling heavily through his nose, Eames proceeded to avert his sight and have mercy on the guy's (already poor excuse of a) nerve-system. The Colonel leaned back in his seat, spreading his legs wide and taking hold of the toothpick which rested between his lips.  
The small wooden stick had been splintered by one of his canines only seconds ago at the disruption by his visitor. It was safe to say the man was often on edge, and he did have good reasons for this. However, it was still obnoxious to be startling every other second, no matter how good he'd become at hiding his reactions (physical jolts included).  
Eames, after having removed the pick, clenched his jaws and lifted a questioning eyebrow as he prodded his chin on his knuckles.

Jack had always been shy with Eames. For all the attitude and green professionalism he seemed to possess when he thought his Colonel was not in the same room with him, he sure as hell lacked all capability of proper human interaction when their eyes locked.  
He couldn't blame him. And the lad certainly wasn't the only one who cowered in the Colonel's towering presence.

The young man stuttered for a moment, cheeks red, before he finally was able to form a coherent contribution.

“They're ready, Colonel.” Jack shared as he fidgeted with the hem of his pullover. Eames watched the long fingers curling themselves in the worn fabric for a moment before withdrawing his gaze. He inhaled deeply to calm the agitation that urged to boil to the surface because of his soldier's nervosity.  
Jack wasn't a lot of things, but he especially was not ready to be thrown into battle even though he'd completed most of his training by now. But, such as mentioned before, perhaps it was only when around Eames that Jack acted like a kicked puppy. The Brit had seen the young man in situations where he'd not been aware of Eames' presence and he'd appeared to be pretty capable of looking after himself.   
There'd been a moment in the distant past when Eames had suspected the brunet to have feigned a coyness in order to have Eames go easy on him. However, the Colonel didn't go easy on anyone and Jack's awkward attitude occurred to Eames of being impossible to fake.

“They-” Eames left the word hanging. In favor of finishing the sentence he optioned to frown dramatically as he turned to look over his shoulder at the clock on the wall behind him. With his head still turned, he glanced back at Jack and pointed up at the cheap time-teller.

“Be a good lad and tell me what time it is.” His demand was spoken with a calm voice and though Jack was aware Eames actually _could_ read clocks, it was apparent that there wasn't sign of amusement to be found within the sarcastic remark. Hence, the young man wasn't fooled to start laughing even though Eames could tell Jack would give anything to break the tension with a nervous chuckle.

“It's-uh. It's one o'clock, Colonel Eames.”

The Englishman resisted an urge to roll his eyes at Jack's poor attempt to soothe his temper with adding his name to his title.  
“One in the morning, huh?”

After a couple of seconds of silence, Jack seemed to jump on the spot as he came to realize it hadn't been a rhetorical question (or well, not a _genuine_ one, so to say). The brunet nodded, his hair bouncing, as he muttered an embarrassed ' _yes colonel_ ', Straight after he swallowed and Eames heard the dryness of his gulp.

“Couldn't this have waited until tomorrow, Jack?” Eames turned to face the soldier, noticing with improper satisfaction how the young man's shoulders hunched and lips tightened at the mentioning of his name. There was something about being on first-name bases with a person that either turned into intimacy or intimidation (if not both). Well, if Eames were involved, that is.

“I-uh.” Jack stammered once more and Eames asked himself why it was that new soldiers being thrown in Britain's military seemed to only get younger and more thick-headed with each year that passed. Perhaps, these days, they served more as a visual feast than they did capable warriors. After all, in spite of the war having yet to come to an end, it had all gotten rather one-sided in England's favor. There was no chance for Britain to get damaged any time soon. The heads of lands lay low, awaiting either permittance to attack or the news that it was the day for all to return home to their families. That is if there were still members left.  
Either way, Eames' land was holding the cards and very much aware of the enemy's -weak- hand.

  
The Colonel, when traveling his eyes down over Jack's body, had to admit the kid was easy on the eyes. Such as a glass of quality Whiskey could veil Eames' day in a shade of calm, the physical beauty of some was able to shush his raging brain. Even -mostly- for just seconds.  
However, it always seemed to be _liquor_ causing Eames to spend too much time in bed, appreciative of the drunken haze. Never men, or women. They brought along too many complications, often carrying enough baggage to have Eames' profound headaches last a life-time. Alcohol on the other hand -also headaches- never talked back and hadn't an attitude to piss Eames off in royal amounts.

Don't get him wrong.

In a distant past, the Colonel had suffered through relationships -the longest of which had lasted a month- but no one had possessed the antidote for the man's toxic brain. He'd tried, though. Women _and_ men. However, that had been in a time Eames could hardly recall, back when he'd yet to accept his self-deprecation and consented solitude.  
Had he met Jack 'back in the day', it wouldn't have ended well for either of them. With those wide eyes and that permanent blush which could either mean shyness or arousal, it was apparent that Jack was easy to intimidate.  
Eames would've had him subdued within minutes, and the kid's consent would've gotten lost along the way. There wasn't a chance Jack would ever say ' _no_ ' to a brute like Eames. And well, back then, the Colonel hadn't exactly been an understanding angel when it came to sexual encounters. In his own eerie and charming fashion, Eames could talk people into doing pretty much anything. He was a master-manipulator and had often made people believe they wanted one thing when actually they had wanted the other. It were these 'tactics' that had gotten even the most doubtful into the man's bed.  
They'd always been willing... at the moment itself.

Nonetheless, those days were over. _That_ Eames had been stifled, shoved somewhere far away in the back of his mind where it'd remain for as long as Eames would be capable of keeping that door locked.

“My apologies, Colonel.” Jack's voice interrupted Eames' guilt-trip down memory-lane.  
“It's just that we didn't want to make you wait any longer, you see.” The young man excused himself, straightening his back, pulling back his shoulders and clenching his jaws in -what he undoubtedly thought to be- a display of confidence. Dearest Jack had been eager to impress Eames ever since he'd arrived in London, about two years ago.  
Why? Eames still didn't know. Only thing coming to mind was some proper family-related issues as Jack had grown up without parents after his father had been thrown in jail for killing off his wife; Jack's mother. Hence, this kid needed stability in his life, and most likely looked up to Eames in a son-to-father manner.

“We?” Eames repeated, resting his chin on the palm of his hand as his elbow had planted itself on the desk.  
“You're dragging everyone else into this to excuse yourself, are you?” He teased the soldier, however did not change his expression other than deepen his frown, preventing the young man of believing Eames wasn't about to blow his brains out. Perhaps it was a bit of punishment for having caused Eames' mind to wander to the more darker corners of his past which he normally avoided like the plague.

Jack gaped at the question and even from this distance, as Eames was sat behind his desk and the soldier stood in the doorway, he could see his pupils dilate as if his brain was strangling itself a way out.

“N-no, Colonel, it's not that, it's just that-”

“Talking back now, are we?”

“No! No! I swear, I just-”

Eames allowed a smirk to form behind the finger curled in front of his mouth and watched, amused, as Jack's eyes widened impossibly larger before a nervous cackle tumbled from between his lips.  
This kid, god, he was as daft as that one girl Eames had dated back when he'd been in his twenties. The girl who'd been convinced that a pound of feathers would reach the ground later than a pound of lead were they both to be dropped from a building at the same time. Though stupidity was a turn-off, Eames had still fucked her more than once because the man had a weak-spot for pale skin and raven-black hair and she'd had all that and then some. He couldn't remember her name, though. Not important.

“Calm down, Jack.” Eames scolded when he'd managed to brush his scattered thoughts back together in a messy heap. His smirk had fallen from his face as quickly as it had appeared. Amongst the Brit's patience, his attention-span as well seemed to lose length from its fuse as the seasons passed him by. Honestly, the Colonel wasn't even that aware about whether this was because he was so disinterested in everything life had to offer, or just because he'd killed off a third of his brain with alcohol and emotional trauma.

Jack took on his beaten-puppy look, unknowingly for sure, and Eames was happy to push the blame of his panic over to the other man eventhough it'd been the Englishman himself who'd lured the other into the argument in the first place.

“Well,-” Eames began as he stretched before leaning back in his seat with hands folded behind his head.  
“I've waited a couple of months. Could've waited a few more hours, don't you think?” He crossed his ankles, body languid like a feline as he eyed Jack through his lashes.

He could practically hear the gears turning in the young man's head, saw his eyes shift around the room before carefully resting their gaze upon Eames' face. The Colonel could tell Jack was using the good ol' ' _look a man between the eyebrows to feign eye-contact_ ' tactic. Eames had studied non-verbal methods of exchanging information as well as communication through facial expressions. He could easily tell when someone was lying, could easily read emotions even when the carrier of them did their absolute best to hide them.  
So, he observed, drank in the image of the young man's fingers folding open and close, weight shifting from one leg to the other and lips pressed shut so tightly they'd turned white.

It didn't take a genius to see that the soldier was going through various answers in his mind and seemingly was biting off a lot of words, swallowing down accusations and-or excuses.  
So, before he'd even spoken, Eames knew Jack would simply apologize, deciding that that was the safest option.

“I'm sorry, Colonel.” His voice was even softer than before, head bowing in shame though Eames was convinced Jack hadn't even had a say in _when_ exactly to notify Eames of the news. The Brit couldn't decide whether he was appreciative of the kid's discreetness to keep opinions to himself and not shove the blame on someone else or if he was annoyed at his lack of back-bone. Jack could easily put the blame on some of his superiors, but he didn't. Afraid of his Colonel no matter if he'd share truth or lies.

Without disregarding or acknowledging the man's apology, Eames rose from his seat, eyes diverting their gaze off Jack.  
The soldier visibly relaxed once Eames' attention targeted more important matters, such as getting ready to face the winter-night.  
He threw a scarf around his neck before going to fetch his coat from a clothes-hanger to the right of the doorway. Jack was clever enough not to recoil within the close proximity of his Colonel, having experienced in the past how the man's temper would ignite at such signs of disrespect.  
Not that Eames took note of this. Not now.  
His playfulness had passed and no longer was he interested in messing around with the kid. There was not much, whether it be living beings or inanimate objects, that were capable of maintaining Eames' attention for a generous amount of time.  
Eames, overall, was a bored man and this showed in his regular alcohol abuse, chain-smoking and unhealthy diet of caffeine and foods pumped with preservatives. Well, not that there was much of a choice when it came to the latter. Fresh foods were scarce and ridiculously expensive.

Eames shrugged his shoulders as he pulled on his double-breasted coat, walking back to his desk to fetch some weaponry.

“Get my men ready.” He demanded, voice firm but low in volume, not bothering to look over his shoulder at Jack and instead checking the ammo inside the heavy gun he was holding.

“Already done, Colonel.” Jack shared and Eames was sure he could hear a smug-undertone to his high-pitched voice. Securing his favored Smith & Wesson into the holster strapped around his shoulders, the Englishman glanced over his shoulder at Jack and could indeed see some arrogant amusement lingering at the edges of his features.  
It somehow aged his face.  
Cheeky git.

“My, my. Extraordinary.” The Colonel murmured with a smile that hardly met his gray eyes and resembled more of a wolfish snarl than it did an appreciative upward curling of lips.

“Thank you, Colonel.” Jack positively beamed at Eames, very much unaware of what the man was capable of if taunted the 'right' way. Eames wondered if the soldier was throwing the same sarcasm he'd used on him back into his face... He didn't seem bright enough to so much as grasp a dry sense of humor.  
It wasn't that he was much bothered about Jack's arrogance, because he knew it was hardly intentional... the kid was just bloody daft, wasn't he. Couldn't help it, really.  
Nevertheless, you see, Eames had a reputation to keep up and thus he glared at the soldier until the smile dropped off his face and his body curled into itself, growing inches shorter within seconds.

 _'Good_ '.'

The Colonel placed his visor-cap on his head, his side-comb already ruined because he'd been tugging his hair in frustration for the past five hours of working on one of his most challenging cases. Jack watched him intensively, a mix of wariness and awe on his features.  
Eames ignored him as he passed him by.

Granted, when stepping out into the hallway, his four men who served as body-guards and right-hands, were stood in stiff posture. Their voices chimed synchronously as they wished Eames a ' _good evening_ '. The Colonel nodded in greeting though his face remained grim before it distorted into a scowl, noting Jack's absence.

“Jack, for God's sake-” He growled as he turned around to the young man still standing in the doorway, staring, and grabbed the front of his pullover. The brunet took a breath and Eames tugged him out of the passageway before slamming its door shut. Eames could swear this kid's mind worked slower than a ninety-nine-year-old Alzheimer patient's recognition of distant relatives did.

“S-sorry.” The boy squawked and though his hands twitched to take hold of Eames' wrist, he stayed still, lowering his eyes. Eames noted the almost-feverish blush on Jack's cheekbones and smirked to himself.  
He was entertainment, this kid, but also a trigger to Eames' poor management on his aggression. But for all he was worth (and that wasn't much) Jack lacked a fire within in order to challenge Eames.  
He was too easy. Often boring. Too willing. Too young. Too afraid to ever put up a fight.   
The kid was an annoying mixture of not being rude enough for Eames to slap him across the face and nor was he bland enough to bore Eames to no end.

“Good lad.” Eames muttered, patting down the crinkles his fists had created in the fabric of Jack's dirty-green pullover.  
“Lead the way then.”

After another harsh pat on the young man's chest -causing him to stumble-, Eames stepped back and allowed the soldier to pass him by, which he did, hastily.

As they paced through the hallways of Eames' secure, underground lair, the Brit's thoughts drifted away to what was about to take place. He was as excited as he was disgusted, had always had mixed feelings towards what he was about to do.  
But bosses had bosses and alongside his own superiority came an obligation to follow in the footsteps of those possessing even more power than men leading the forces to protect the country.

This being said, Eames could've never prepared himself for what this night had to offer. He could've never been aware of how life-changing the choices he'd be making in mere hours would actually be.

Not to mention, the impact it'd all would have on his very own person, changing anything he believed in and everything he thought to be.

 

* * *

 

 

Their strut echoed against the cobble-stoned walls. Eames' eyes rested lazily on the back of Jack's head who'd been stupid enough to still be leading the way even though their destination could be seen at the end of the hallway. But the Colonel was too far gone in his own head to notice the indecency of someone walking in front of a superior when not being a body-guard.  
He was surrounded by the sounds of the soldiers' boots treading over concrete and the clicks and ticks of their rifles which were slung over shoulders. In spite of the ambient noise, the cacophony in his mind always gained the upper-hand, and tonight was no different.

Eames wasn't aware of his surroundings -auto-pilot legs carrying him through the hallway- and instead had his mind mangling itself on the fact that he'd be returning home that same night with a human being as his servant, his petty slave to use and abuse as he pleased.  
Slavery had found its installment within Britain and various countries across the world. Men (never women) who were ranked above their citizens in terms of wealth, fame and power, were obligated to purchase human servants. Whereas it'd always been self-evidently to consume marriage and spawn children, in today's age owning human servants was as normal as the white-picket-fence life had once been in the past.  
Sure, you could turn around, walk against the stream and refuse to swim along. However, that just held ten times the risk of you drowning. Not participating in today's slavery wasn't illegal persé, but neither was it 'just' frowned upon. 'T was worse than that, with its risks of having one labeled as an outcast. The moment you started descending society's ladder, tumbling down various ranks, it could have you end up exiled, or worse... Much worse.

It had started as a foul plot to shame the United States. Eames remembered when the war had been raging for about half a year; more and more Yanks infiltrating England every week. They'd be disguised as kind-hearted women with chubby-cheeked children, their husbands carrying amateurish foreign accents to hide away their American tongue.  
Not only did they smuggle themselves into the Englishmen's houses, elbowing the natives out of their own damn shelters, but they as well planned and acted out inside attacks. Simple, American peasants, thinking they could just immigrate into Great Britain and kill off its national citizens.  
That's when human-trafficking began taking on a great market and it wasn't long after that when the leaders announced that Americans were to be killed on sight (even by Brits who did not participate in the army or so much as had a license for owning firearms) or to be locked up anywhere an Englishman would desire to have their nation's enemy. Around that time, slavery had been legalized, allowing anyone who'd been born in Britain and owned a citizen permit, to own one slave per household.  
A snowball-effect followed suite in which it quickly had been allowed to own slaves of any nationality, except for the English.  
Few months later the laws again got adjusted to having slavery legalized no matter what, the only thing on an owner's mind being to pay the taxes for owning servants.  
About twelve months passed in which the loose laws got abused to a point where anyone had been foe and the riots on the streets grew out of control.

Hence, they'd upped the taxes. Again and again until the day in which it was impossible to be able to afford a slave -were you not a man of importance, of means and of blessed wealth- had arrived.  
It had all begun out of a stubborn pride and a heinous hunger to humiliate the enemy to a point where death seemed more glamorous than anything else being thrown at them.  
Today, it was the most blindly accepted cruelty within various countries which had followed Britain's example mindlessly, like lapdogs eager to be cooed.

The world had not only come to a stop during the third World War, but more so it had rewind itself to centuries ago. The earth had been ruined beyond repair. The simplest things of the not-so-distant past were no more; mobile phones, television, Internet and... basic human rights had come and gone.  
Now, the idiocy of human kind had _grown_ over the past decade to a point where a bright future appeared absolutely impossible, even beyond repent.  
Everyone existed but none lived.

The border between rich and poor only continued to expand, rapidly, globally.  
And the border between empathy and cruelty was no more.

The poor rarely survived long enough to lay eyes upon grand-children. Rebels, violence, starvation, ill-aimed bullets and illnesses (for which only the rich could afford medication), prematurely killed them off.  
As for those holding power and money, they were expected -if not forced- to follow the rules laid upon them by presidents and dictators. To some degree, people such as Eames were less free than the humans sleeping in the streets; killing rats with their bare hands because food was that scarce. Eames couldn't imagine how horrible and disgusting it must be to be a mere peasant in the after-math of the globe-scaled demolition.. But then, did he have it so much better? Did he have any more choice of which life to live than the poor did?

Doubtful.

These tiny, paranoid assumptions, went hand-in-hand with the side of Eames that was grossed out by the thought of 'owning' a human being. However, he'd already been putting it off for the past two years. Saito was starting to get doubts about Eames' true ' _warrior-spirit_ ', as he liked to call it.  
The last thing Eames wanted to accomplish was to disappoint England's leader, alas the man to which he was the Right-Hand, alas the man who'd taken him under his wing when he'd just been a kid, having lost both his parents, surviving on the streets which had yet to be ripped apart by the upcoming war.

It was safe to say Saito was a bit of a father to him, though a strict one. Saito wasn't one to take anyone's bullshit, he didn't forget and did not have mercy on those who were guilty and considered the land's shame. Their twenty years together did not mean Saito went easy on him and he'd gotten fed up with the Colonel's excuses for not needing a servant, nor a pet, nor his very own charge-less whore.

It was just how it went in the present day. It was a normal assumption to possess that the rich had some poor street-rat living in their home (though often exclusively in a cellar or attic, if not a poorly-isolated stable). They weren't even hard to find. Young and old would try to budge in with a wealthy person, just so they could have a full belly, a warm bed and medication which they often did need after having lived on the virus-infested streets.  
What mothers chose to ignore, when dumping their young children at doorsteps of well-maintained homes, was the great amount of physical and sexual abuse taking place behind those deluxe, closed doors. _They knew_. Everyone knew. Heck, the children themselves knew... But still... it just, well, … it just happened every day again.

Eames shuddered, bitterly amused at the fact that the thought of children being abused affected him more than the memories he had of the many people he'd murdered in the name of independence and liberty. They hadn't all been clean shots to the head, either.  
Though it had been years ago, Eames would never be able to forget those he'd killed with his bare hands. Those were always harder on him than the ones having had an impersonal bullet drilled into their flesh and organs. They were even more difficult to digest than the nightmares he had of knifing out the guts of his victims. Those dreams were not at all fantasized but just replays of his past.

Eames wished he could pretend that the heavy weight on his shoulders was a coat of repentance and empathy. Nothing was less true than that lie he told himself every day when he stared into the mirror, grimacing at the pale shell of a man in front of him.  
He was drowning in his own guilt, his disgust for who he's been and still was.

Besides never having killed women or children, and never having forcefully raped any being; dead or alive; human or animal, Eames still had earned himself the throne in Hell with the sins he'd committed.

He wasn't a good man. Charm and wit be damned. Eames despised himself at least as much as his enemies did and perhaps this daily self-martyred state of mind had convinced him to just do what Saito had urged him to do. After all, it couldn't get much worse than this.

He'd to get some in-her-thirties woman to clean his place, cook his food and wash his clothes during the day, and keep him company during the night; be it sexual or not.  
The man comforted himself with the fact that most of these modern slaves consented to their own torture. Anything was better than living on the cold, snow-covered streets with only the memory of your lost loved ones and suddenly-tastefully-looking cockroaches there to keep you company.  
He just needed to pick carefully because he knew he had a tendency to burst out in fits of violence when taunted, disrespected or disobeyed. The safest option was a female, drained from life with no one left to return to. He needed a woman, because Eames knew it'd take him great fucking amounts of rebellion before he'd so much as raise his voice at one. He needed one in grief, a broken spirit to accompany her vague memories of people that used to be in her life.  
Yes.  
Eames needed to pick the most timid servant out of the bunch. It was of utmost importance to leave his hunger for a challenge, his desire for some passion and spark, way back home, buried six-feet under with the heaviest block of concrete on top of the grave to prevent those particular desires from _ever_ resurrecting.

Besides, Eames just didn't want to disappoint the man with whom he'd shared years of hatred towards the Americans and an outstandingly fanatic appreciation of eating rice and raw fish from a woman's body with.  
So, his back was plastered against the wall, no way to get out any longer. It was best to just get it over with.

“Colonel.” Both soldiers guarding the door greeted Eames in sync -their stomps as well perfectly matching the other- when he came to a stop in front of a heavy-looking wooden portal. Deep bows followed, Japanese etiquette beaten into the English since day one of Saito coming to lead this hierarchy.

The Englishman nodded curtly, staring at the door behind which his future slave would be present amongst about a dozen more contenders, for lack of better words.  
Jack, thank hell, had gotten it in his thick skull to await further instruction, standing behind Eames. All of the soldiers in the hallway waited patiently for Eames to enter the room. However, the man took his time, feigning nonchalance when he actually was trying to calm his nerves and reeling his facade back up from the pits of self-doubt which he'd tossed it in.  
He brought a hand up to his right ear, retrieving a brand-new toothpick which he placed between his full lips. His permanent nervosity urging his oral fixation to chew something, anything, to calm him down.

Eames' eyes traveled to one of the guards at the door, nodding when he caught his gaze. The young man opened the door, stepping aside simultaneously to allow two of Eames' bodyguards to enter the room. The Colonel straightened his back and lolled his head for a second until he could feel the bones in his neck pop pleasantly.

Clasping his gloved hands behind his back, Eames strutted into the small room, his soldiers at his heel in case there'd be a need for protection.

“Gentlemen.” Eames spoke as he'd entered the room, eyes scanning the ridiculous amount of soldiers in the small space. His men greeted him back, short and firm.  
He nodded softly, taking his time to lock eyes with every veteran in the room, letting them know he was aware of the presence of every single one of them, which could be perceived as either motivational or worrisome to these youngsters so eager to impress.

As Eames rolled his toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other, he removed his visor-cap, discarding it on the four fingers Jack had already reached out.  
His coat followed suite, draped over the man's other arm, along with his scarf.

Freed from the articles,, Eames walked farther into the room, taking in the wooden walls and dusty bar at the far left. The space wasn't large but all furniture, except for a few chairs in a corner, had been removed. Most likely this had been done in order to lessen the claustrophobic atmosphere caused by the dark wood against walls and on the floor. The light-bulb overhead didn't help either, the yellow glow so poor it darkened the corners of the space to a pitch-black and Eames was sure that he'd grow sleepy, like an old man, were he to stay here for a couple of hours.

“At ease.” The Colonel commanded when setting sight on the aged bottles of liquor on glass shelves behind the bar. He licked his lips, stabbing his own tongue on his toothpick like an uncoordinated idiot.  
He exhaled softly as his men relaxed their shoulders and leaned their weight on one of two feet or against the nearest walls. He took hold of the toothpick, poking behind a tad-too-sharp of a canine as he glanced to his left, automatically - _predictably_ \- meeting Jack's eye.

“Jack.” Eames spoke softly, demanding everyone to be still, quiet and to pay greatest attention to what he was saying. A beneficial aspect to whispering. Whereas often people would think shouting caused others to actually listen and pay attention, it was a soft volume that truly carried the factor of self-confidence and intimidation, which had a person's skins crawl and ears perk.

“Colonel.” Jack affirmed, as he took a few steps towards his superior, eyes bright and wide, void of any exhaustion.  
' _Bloody youngsters_ ' Eames growled to himself, his aging body envious of the soldier's energy. That lust for life which you'd lose when passing your mid-thirties.  
Or maybe that was just Eames, who'd grown more bitter as the years came and went. Now, at thirty, the Englishman wondered how long it would take before his mind and body would cave. Even more so; which one would be first? Sleeping on the ground in deserts which turned ridiculously cold at night (as if to make up for the even more preposterous heat during the day) had not helped his joints or bones. Not yet forty, but Eames already suffered from the weekly ache in the knee or a stiffness in an elbow.  
And then there were those days he felt as if he'd been set on fire and run over by a train, twice.

Luckily for him, and the other men around him, he wasn't feeling all too bad today, except for the familiar exhaustion which he hadn't been able to catch up to for the past _years._ Though the man's fuse was always ridiculously short; not being in physical pain did slow down the flame.

“Fetch me a Scotch, there's a lad.” Eames curtly commanded, his voice layered thickly with contempt. Jack obeyed immediately, discarding his Colonel's coat and hat on a rusty clothes-hanger behind the bar, before diving into cupboards in search of Eames' preferred alcohol.  
He was always happy to please, never that affected by Eames' more subtle ways to put him down. If the Colonel wasn't outright yelling at the soldier, there was little chance Jack would so much as grasp that his superior wasn't fond of him one bit.

Eames frowned at the noise of porcelain and glass being moved around.

With the obnoxious lad occupied and the prospect of an intoxicating beverage coming his way; Eames finally found it within himself to turn on his heel and have his eyes travel over the row of people in the middle of the room.  
There were twelve potential slaves present, standing side to side, heads bowed, arms to their sides. The space was cold, but still they'd only gotten dressed in off-white knickers and wife-beaters. Their feet, all of them equally dirty, didn't so much as have a sock to protect the soles from the dusty, splintery boards that layered the floor.

See, now this is where Eames' two-sided masochism came to be. These lads and lasses were hardly any better than the scum on the street, better yet, Eames was sure that at least half of them _were_ street-rats. And certainly there were Americans present as well, there always were.  
But for all that Eames was an arrogant asshole, there was a side to him which could not turn a blind eye at the unfairness of young people -American or not- living without family, coughing themselves to a prepubescent death were they not to be taken by men eager to molest their scrawny bodies.  
The least they could do was to put some fucking shoes on them.

Eames watched the slaves, one by one, noting pale toes, trembling bodies, droopy noses and white puffs of smoke as they'd exhale.

Jack interrupted the path his eyes had been taking and Eames took the glass of Scotch from him, nodding to dismiss his further company.  
The room was deadly quiet as Eames took a sip from the liquor, having to scrape his throat right after because of its aged spice. He hummed at the strong taste, removing his toothpick and flicking it to the ground before he stepped closer to the line of people.

A shiver rolled down his spine, not at all caused by the chilliness within the four walls. Eames wasn't comfortable with picking a living being from their family and life. But this messy task had to be fulfilled. Saito'd waited long enough for this, had given Eames far more time than he'd ever grant other men below him.

He downed the rest of his drink, reaching the empty glass into a direction he believed Jack would be, as his own eyes stayed focused on the first person in the quiet line. Jack relieved him from the tumbler before stepping back to his place against the wall, squeezed between fellow soldiers.  
Eames wasn't one to grow claustrophobic that easily, but he had to admit, this room was too bloody small for over twenty people to be occupying it.

“Any Americans?” Eames asked.

The shuffling of paper filled the room immediately, agitating Eames for it meant the task-dealer of slave-collecting hadn't even taken the time to deepen himself into the servants' backgrounds. He glared at the soldier across the room, line of sight high enough to reach over the lowered heads of the slaves stood in between.

The man was named Eric, or Rick, maybe Erin? Eames couldn't remember, but he did not forget faces and he knew that the German man was one of the biggest pieces of shit under his direct command. Eames had been waiting for this man to make one single mistake so he could finally throw his ass to the curb and never witness the coward's face ever again.  
It was known that the German had assaulted women on multiple occasions, though Saito did not find this a legitimate reason to fire or so much as punish the guy.

The German scraped his throat, flicking some papers in the large file-case before finally straightening up and meeting Eames' eye.

“No, Colonel.” And after a hesitant pause-  
“We've got in our company; Two French, one Belgian, seven English and two Italians.

Eames quirked one eyebrow. Italians were rare in London.

“I'm guessing this one?” Eames asked with a curious tone to his voice as he pointed at the young woman who stood at the left end of the row. With her dark-brown hair and olive-skin, it was a safe guess, especially when noting the paleness and blonds in the room, present in great majority.

The German looked down at his papers for a split second before nodding.

“Yes, Colonel.”

Eames nodded, attention settled as he walked closer to her, coming to a halt in front of the woman. He left enough room to not intrude on her personal space, though he doubted it'd do anything to soothe the obvious fear that caused her body to ripple with tremors continuously.  
He reached out a hand, pausing when the woman flinched, her body leaning away from him.  
To emphasize how raw the law was today, Eames was aware that her cowering alone gave him enough right to slap her across the face. He'd never get scolded for it, not even by Saito. Heck, he could beat her unconscious and it'd still be justified because he was in a leading position and thus blindly trusted to make the right decisions. To dispense the appropriate punishment.  
Eames hushed her like he'd do with a skittish animal and lightly took hold of her chin to tilt her head up. The blackness of his leather gloves clashed with the tan on her skin.

She was beautiful alright. High cheekbones, prominent lips and black eyes, leaving no doubt she was anything but Caucasian.  
Her eyes did not leave the floor (a smart move) and when Eames tilted her chin further she closed them in order to avoid all eye-contact.  
Part of Eames pitied her. And part of him relished the fear he could infest in human beings of any age, any gender, any nationality. Safe to say he got off on power, which was a dangerous fetish on its own.

The Brit retreated his hand abruptly, watching the woman's head loll forwards, her chin now tucked tightly against her throat.

“Read me the crimes of all.” Eames commanded Eric-Erin-something, as he began to pace along the row of people, observing their reactions as they could see the man's feet pass them by at a slow pace, proximity too close. The man had folded his hands behind his back, trying to soothe the urge to have a fag (which he'd forgotten back in his office).

It wasn't often that his men did not succeed at capturing Americans. Foolishly enough Eames believed he'd find it easier to 'own' an enemy rather than his own people or those from countries who'd fought alongside England. However, there weren't any Yanks to claim and thus the man decided to have a listen to the crimes they'd committed and hopefully pick out the biggest bastard of them all.

It was likely there'd not be anything surprising on the list which the German had started to read out. After all, these 'slaves' would get snatched off the streets to distribute in human-trafficking if they would so much as snaffle a loaf of bread.

“Miss on your farthest left is named Isabella Munoz. Twenty-eight years of age. There's no illnesses spotted so far and her nature is subdued, easy-to-handle, so to say.” The German paused, eying Eames warily before continuing.  
The Colonel had a tendency to burst out into anger without showing any signs beforehand and often because of reasons which would not bother him on other days. Hence, any and every person who'd so much as heard of him were rather cautious when sharing a conversation with him.

Except for Jack.  
But that didn't count.  
Because he was bloody stupid.

“She's been caught red-handed and it turns out she's been stealing regularly and profoundly from our local bakery.”

Eames paused right before reaching the end of the line and glanced over his shoulder at the German. He narrowed his eyes and Rick-Eric straightened up, confusion obvious on his face. Surely he was analyzing the words he'd spoken only seconds ago in order to find out why the Colonel was glaring at him.  
Eames allowed him to sweat for a couple of seconds before he dryly remarked.

“We've got a bakery?”

It took the man off-guard and he frowned at Eames as if he'd grown a second head.

“Y-yes, Colonel. It's down Chester-lane at the-” Eames raised a hand, urging the man to shut up as he didn't give a rat's ass about their local bakery which surely was infested with pests, and baguettes baked long enough to scrape the roof of your mouth and be considered capable of stabbing someone to death.

A glance to Isabella confirmed the sensation of being watched which Eames had felt with his back turned. She quickly looked away, Eames could see the gasp stiffening her body and he had every right at that moment to smack her across the face for not having kept her sight casted down.  
But he let it slip...

As mentioned before; Eames had never been violent with women. Call him old-fashioned, he never laid hands upon the female gender when in anger. The Japanese seemed to have less inhibition with slapping a woman into next week than the English did. Nonetheless, there were still enough men who raised their paws to either fondle or damage those ladies which were cursed with simply their gender alone. Nationality had little to do with it.  
Eames recalled a time in the past when he'd placed the blade of his knife against the throat of one of his very own Japanese men. The soldier had had the job to interrogate a female who at that time was suspected of owning more weaponry then the average man in war. However, when Eames had come to check for information, the female had been beaten black-and-blue. The Colonel had started a fight with the soldier not only to teach him a lesson and get rid of his own anger, but as well so the woman had had a chance to slip out through the door he'd left ajar.  
She had.  
And Eames had let her go, wishing her the best in his mind.

Along with the memory, Eames noticed the tiny finger-print bruises on Isabella's arms and he turned on his heel to stand in front of her once again.

“Did you arrest her at her home?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Was there family?” Eames asked softly, watching the German's face contort in what seemed to be anxiety as he slid down a finger over one of the papers in his hand. His lips moved soundlessly as he read the page in search of Eames' answer.

“Yes,-” He tapped the paper.  
“-three children and two elderly were inhabiting the same building at the time of her arrest, Colonel.”

“Children?” Eames frowned for a second.

“Yes. Ages varied from approximately four to eight years. They have not been taken by our men, though.”

“Which bloody nutter found it to be a good idea to arrest her?” Eames' voice was loud. He wasn't shouting, but the sound left from his chest, shoved out by lungs-amount of oxygen.  
No one replied for various seconds, though they all straightened up a bit, gazes shifting around in nervous glances. As if eye-contact alone would give anyone an answer to offer to Eames.

“I-uh. We thought it would be appreciated, Colonel. She's rather beautiful, ain't she?” The German smiled nervously.

Eames' jaws clenched as his teeth started to grind. Of course these poor excuses of warriors had chosen to pick out physically attractive servants rather than actual functional ones... You know, the ones who knew how to pick up a brush and make a bed.

“Get her dressed, Eric-” Eames began.

“It's-er, it's Christoph, Colonel.”

 _Bloody hell_. That wasn't even close to what Eames had had in mind. Not that he found importance in remembering names and surely enough 'Christoph' would shape itself into something ridiculous like 'Gustav' by the end of the week.

“Shut your trap, Rick, and get her home.”

A hushed silence followed suite and Eames could've sworn he'd heard Jack chuckle somewhere behind him.  
A stillness fell over them and Eames was very much aware of how contradicting he must look to his men right at that moment. Saito wouldn't be too pleased when catching wind of Eames having sent a potential slave back home, back to freedom.  
Nonetheless, the Brit was best at lying and bluffing when in the moment and he knew he'd come up with all kinds of excuses on his feet when confronted by Saito.  
Improvisation and gut-feeling were aspects of Eames which had allowed him to survive for so long when confronted with so many enemies.

“Chop chop!” Eames barked after another few seconds of disobedience, clapping his hands in time with the words. He watched, satisfied, as a commotion erupted around him. Soldiers stuttered into movement, two of them grabbed the Italian woman by her upper-arms; far more gently than Eames believed they'd do without his watch.

Within the chaos of action being taken, Eames kept his sight on the Italian. He wasn't at all surprised when she searched him out, mouthing a ' _thank you_ ' towards him. He didn't react to her, just watched as she was escorted out of the room by two soldiers.  
Though her 'thank you' could've been the only English words she'd ever learned, Eames had noted her twitching and tensing during his conversation with the German. So, she _understood_ English, at the least.  
It wasn't of importance any longer, though.

“Soldiers!” Eames barked, having the men pause in their step dramatically enough for the one on the right to nearly tip over the door's step. They shuffled around to face Eames, Isabella still being held between them.

“I advice you to not try anything funny because, as many of you have experienced first-handedly, I **always** find out.” Eames shared calmly, his gaze steady on the two soldiers who muttered their understanding.

“That was a promise.” The Brit continued and the men gulped simultaneously.  
“Dismissed.” After a wave of his hand, they exited the room and the door closed behind the third soldier carrying her former clothes.  
Eames considered his job done. She was back on her own now, he'd done his thing, it'd been the most he could've done for her.

Why?

Well. He wasn't an animal. And he knew what it was like to lose a parent at a similar young age to the three children in her home. Whether they were related by blood or not, it still was so very important for kids to be taken care of, protected as best as possible.

The Colonel turned back to the line of servants, eleven now, and watched them all cower, lowering their curious looks back to the floor once Eames was turned to face them. In his peripheral vision, though, Eames noted someone had yet to avert their gaze and when he turned his head to confront the foolish person, saw he'd already lowered his head.  
Eames' eyes narrowed at the scrawny kid, wondering if he'd be dumb enough to look back up. Fortunately for him, he didn't.

“Go on, Kevin.” Eames addressed the German who by now had given up on correcting his Colonel, instead continuing to ramble off the information he had on every servant, one by one, from left to right.  
Somewhere in the middle, Eames' focus swerved directions, away from the German's voice in order to pay attention to that sensation of being watched. It was that scrawny, pale boy at the right, again, watching him, however far more subtly than he had earlier.  
Nevertheless, the Colonel found it hard to believe anyone would be foolish enough to take such risks, knowing perfectly well (such as anyone else in Britain did) that eye-contact between the rich and poor was absolutely frowned upon unless initiated by the one in higher position.  
The rule was even more outspoken when it fell in the hands of slaves and masters. Those less powerful were expected to keep their chins dipped, or at least have their eyes aimed south.

Eames nipped at his lower-lip for a second, the skin dry because of winter-winds and a preference for alcohol over water. It did its job at attracting another gaze from the slave who, distracted by the Colonel facial expressiveness, was not in time to avert his curiosity off of him when Eames looked over. Their eyes did not exactly meet but he was in time to see the scallywag lower his head, shoulders hunched taut with unavoidable apprehension, if not fear.  
Well, well... Either that boy was as daft as Jack, or as cock-sure as Eames. The Colonel smirked to himself, enjoying the spark of anger and intrigue before he narrowed his attention back to the German's voice.

The three young women at the end of the line, scallywag at their left, had committed crimes hardly worth mentioning, let alone punishing. Well, perhaps missus France had gone a bit too far with her decision to transform her basement into a humble-scaled family-business, producing alcohol, more specifically wine (loyal to her roots), which was scarce these days and forbidden to be produced by citizens within London city. Liquor taxes were nearly as unaffordable as those on slaves.

Nonetheless, Eames could not repeat what he'd done earlier for the Italian to any of these servants. It'd raise even more suspicion than there already was.

Soldiers, Lieutenants and even more so colonels were supposed to fight this war without assumptions. Enemies were enemies, criminals were criminals and slaves were slaves. Picking preferences wasn't appreciated whatsoever.  
Eames, however, was as impulsive as he was a calculated thinker. The man acted upon emotion, but then was the best at hiding everything that went on inside of him. Fair to say that the Colonel was a bit of a paradox.  
He'd turned a lot of blind eyes in his time, mostly in favor of women and children and though Saito did always lecture him about how he had to make a stone of his heart, the Jap was still very much appreciative of Eames' skills in battle, physical _and_ intellectual.

After all, the Brit wasn't an innocent man, on the contrary, he'd slaughtered men without thinking twice about it. His impulsive killing, firing the second he'd suspect threat had saved his and his army's arse more than once. It was when he'd slit the throat of his comrade with whom he'd spent three years on the battlefield and in poorly-isolated tents, that Saito had truly come to trust the man's tactics and off-kilter mind-sets. Mentioned comrade, Will (a name Eames would _not_ forget), had unfortunately optioned to try and betray Saito in order to flee the country with his wife and two small children.  
He'd been a good lad, that one.  
Eames realized on that day, when Will had been his most personal as well as his most brutal assassination, that he was more beast than man. Someone to fear. To avoid. To hate.

The Colonel was certain that most of his men did not like him, nor was this the goal either. But his soldiers knew that if they did everything as commanded, they had a powerful man watching over their backs. Eames was loyal. A man of his word. A man who'd prove with action rather than phrased promises.  
However, rub him the wrong way, and he'd move heaven and earth to suffocate your life in a wave of misery until you disappeared below the surface. Often one would never reach the surface ever again.

“And, lastly,-” Rick's voice shook Eames from his wandering brain. He blinked, breathing deeply to calm down his agitated heart pounding erratically.  
He paced to the end of the line, inner turmoil hidden from his handsome features, before coming to a stop in front of the scrawny, pale kid who'd been eying him curiously not that long ago.

“Name; not known.” Erin began and Eames raised an eyebrow at that. He folded his hands behind his back, drinking in the sight of the kid, the German's voice a bit muffled in his eardrums as Eames found the black curls of the boy more interesting.

“Nationality; presumed to be English.”

Eames frowned, already growing impatient at the future excuses the German would be telling him in order to explain how he and his man had failed so dramatically in collecting the simplest of information.

The kid's head was dipped low enough that Eames was able to see the nape of his neck were he to lean a bit forwards. He was short, absolutely tiny, emaciated. The Brit doubted that the boy's crown would reach his shoulder even if he'd stretch his body up straight.  
His shoulders were ridiculously bony, the protruding knobs even more visible as he rolled his shoulders to ease the ache that came with standing hunched, head dipped low for so long.  
Going by just the sight of him, Eames was surprised the boy hadn't lost consciousness as of yet. His stance certainly was unsteady because of wobbly, scraped knees and a trembling in the muscles of his legs which only came with starvation and absolute exhaustion. His breaths, Eames noted, were too shallow to ever produce enough oxygen to keep his brain in the game. He must be having a hard time with any simple task in daily life.  
Eames doubted that the slave was even capable of forming a coherent conversation.

“Age suspected to be late teens.”

“Late-teens?” Eames stopped the German with his question. There wasn't a chance in hell this boy would be older than fifteen.  
He looked at him more closely, wondering if he was watching him as well through the thick curtain of messy black curls that covered his forehead and eyes.

“We're fairly certain he's over seventeen, Colonel.” Eames smirked at the poor excuse of an explanation, rolling his hand in order to have the German continue reading the boy's file, before he refolded them behind his back. Rick's voice was starting to tremble, as if Eames' mood went along with the atmosphere in the room, stifling anyone inside.

“He's mute.”

The moment that information had been spoken, Eames could see the subtle tensing of the kid's shoulders, his body growing impossibly more rigid. It wouldn't have been obvious if he'd been clothed or not as skinny as he was... But in here, the soft light casting shadows on every bump of his body, he could see the shift clear as day.  
He wasn't mute. Eames was convinced of this. He'd had enough training in body-language, facial expressions and twitches... Even pupils betrayed a person's lies. He could read people like books. No challenge to be found within most.

“Crimes committed include, amongst many; theft of food, water, alcohol and military weaponry. The latter he has achieved by lock-picking as well as sabotaging the more affordable alarm-systems.”

Eames lips couldn't decide whether to curl up in an amused smile or pull down in an annoyed grimace.

“Violence against soldiers- by the hands of biting, scratching, kicking, punching as well as head-butting.” The man took a hesitant breath before continuing, as if he feared Eames would blow the kid's brains out right here right now.

Ah, on the contrary...

“Disrespecting soldiers- by the hands of spitting and taunting with lewd hand-gestures as well as pulling faces.  
Hiding fellow citizens, hiding of stolen goods, smuggling of stolen goods and forging of illegitimate paperwork.”

There fell a loaded silence after the German had lowered the file, looking up. Eames made sure to wipe the smirk off his own face before straightening up, eyes still resting on the crown of the boy's head.

“Impressive summary.” The Brit whistled, indulgent of how the scallywag startled at the sharp sound coming from somewhere above him.

“Quite so, Colonel. However, our uncertainty about his age and no direct threat being present have disabled our right to punish him with the death penalty.”

Eames nodded. If the boy had been known to be over twenty-one (the current legal age to attend to the noose), or at least have _looked_ older, he wouldn't have been standing here today.  
His never-ending list of crimes was a major defect, however, his young age was his absolute luck. Eames was surprised this kid hadn't been shot to death during one of his quarrels with soldiers. After all, on the streets, with less eyes to regulate the laws' _do's and don't's_ , it was not unusual to act upon impulse and commit unjustified murder.  
Death penalty and its rules were all and well, but the world was too far gone to keep itself on the right lane. Illegal happenings either tipped towards being disregarded or absolutely overblown.  
A blind eye to the murder of a child and then execution for a mother stealing much-needed nutrition for their offspring.

“Colonel, myself and colleagues who've accompanied me on the night this boy has been arrested would not advise you to take him as your servant. He's rather difficult to handle, obnoxious even, and incredibly aggressive.” Eric carefully added and Eames' perked at the promise of a challenge. Which he should not be interested in. It was bad enough he'd have to own a human being like he'd own an animal, let alone having an aggressive and arrogant twat on his hands twenty-four seven.  
It wouldn't end well. Eames had little patience. He'd lash out before they would've gotten through their first day, if the slave would treat him like he had comrades.

“Quite the challenge.” He murmured lowly, watching a shudder shake the boy's body which was colored in bruises anywhere Eames' eye could reach. He was dirty as well, leaving no doubt that'd he'd been living on the street.  
The colonel watched for a moment how the boy's hands trembled as his fists were folded so tightly it colored the knuckles white.  
Eames could _feel_ his rage.

He was bad news. Fire and fire did not go hand in hand. They'd end up spinning in an inferno before one of them burned alive. And that someone would be the kid, no doubt about it.  
Eames' sense of pride and authority, perhaps even self-righteousness would never be able to allow him to live along-side a cocky servant without wanting, _craving,_ to dominate it, tame it, subdue it. The Colonel knew, for certain, that this boy would bring out the worst of him, would flare his anger to a point he'd end up hurting him.

Or, well... maybe he _was_ well-behaved with a roof over his head? Maybe it'd just been the fact he'd had soldiers picking him off the street and beating him into submission that had caused him to act up like was stated in his file.

' _Probably not, though._ ' His brain added rationally.

Whatever he did, Eames should not pick this scrawny, long-limbed teenager. Anyone else would do. He just needed to chose the most boring, most quiet, most backbone-lacking servant of them all.  
That's what he'd promised himself for the past weeks, that's what he'd urged himself to do -not long ago when standing in front of the very door having lead him inside of here.  
Yet, he could not stop himself from asking further, curious about the mute boy. Assuring his upset conscience that questioning wouldn't hurt. That finding out more about this slave, honestly and truly would definitely, convincingly **not** influence Eames' opinions for the worst.   
No. Not gonna happen.

“Any family?” Eames asked, slamming the door shut on his panicking thoughts. The German looked back down at his papers.

“No, Colonel, none. We picked him off the streets. He hasn't got a home or house either.” Eames hummed at that, thoughtfully observing every inch of the adolescent in front of him... He seemed pretty subdued right now, and those earlier glances... well, they'd been curiosity, right? They hadn't had anything to do with arrogance or rebellion, because if that had been the case, he'd never have tried to hide the fact he'd been watching Eames.  
He would've held his eye, inviting a beating.

The boy coughed under his breath, doing his utmost best at keeping quiet and Eames listened to the rasp in his lungs and the gurgle in the back of his throat. He really wasn't doing all that well.

' _Even more reason to not take him. A virus-infested street-rat is of no use._ ' Shared a part of his brain of which Eames wasn't sure was the good side or the bad one. After all, it was cruel to throw this boy back out or into the hands of some fat, rich pig who'd molest him daily. Yet, then again, he shouldn't take this boy because he knew he himself was a danger to it as well. He might not sexually assault the boy, but there was no doubt there'd be physical contact within the shape of intentional damage caused by fists or the flat of one of Eames' hands.  
Eames could not handle rebels in a respectful manner, but neither could he doormats... So what the hell would it be then?  
A quiet voice in the back of his conscience assured Eames that this boy wouldn't make it to his twenties were he to be thrown back on the streets. Hell... if he'd survive another year it'd be an outstanding accomplishment. So, to the boy, it was a lose-lose situation wherein Eames was the lesser of possible evils.

The Brit lowered his gaze over the boy's legs which were as good as hairless, betraying his age.  
His feet were almost blackened by filth, but the dirt did not hide the poor state of them. Wounds, scars and scratches showing he'd been roaming streets longer than just a couple of months.

Eames felt an unfamiliar heat tightening his chest which felt a lot like guilt but seemed to be layered with something else; an explanation as to why he couldn't quite pull his eyes off the kid or so much as presume he'd not take him home that very night. The Brit wasn't certain of what it was exactly that was taking his breath away. Empathy? Curiosity? Nostalgia?  
All he knew was that he wanted him.

Perhaps it **was** his guilt -his shame of having taken so many lives without second thought- that urged him to claim this kid and allow him to at least recuperate from his tough life, give him a second chance like Eames had had when meeting Saito.  
After all, he could just throw him back out once he'd had some fat on him and his lungs had stopped sounding like a meat-grinder... So, what's the big deal?  
What's to lose?

Eames had been the same at that age. No family, living on the streets, committing crime after crime and then having been wary of a sudden stranger coming into his life. He still didn't understand what it had been that Saito had seen in him, but he'd treated him like a son from day one. Though he was strict, cold even, the man had raised Eames without ever breaking their bond of trust and loyalty.

Maybe that's what this kid deserved as well? Maybe what Saito had seen in Eames back then was what the Colonel was now seeing in the mute.

' _But your rage..._ ' His mind provided warningly.

Eames pinched the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes. His headache had finally come through as he pondered what it was that drew him to him. He was as much in awe as he was agitated when hearing about how he'd treated fellow soldiers, mocking them, like an arrogant brat would.  
The crimes he'd committed... there'd been small things and big things but more so he'd committed acts which proved he was a bright boy. This slave wasn't just any other kid on the street. There was a grand personality to him, an intelligence that could only come by having gone through hell and back.  
And this shouldn't matter. This shouldn't influence Eames' choices of that night.  
Nevertheless, they did. And they did to such a degree it caused the Colonel to pity his own childhood as it flashed by on his closed eyelids.

' _Eames? What's it gonna be, eh?'_ He asked himself.

As if the kid could hear the man's inner turmoil, he carefully peeked up through his bangs. His head barely moved but Eames noticed and as he looked down into one of the boy's dark-brown eyes, he knew the decision had been made.

“Send the others away.” Eames spoke softly, eyes not leaving the boy's who as well seemed determined to not cower.

Whereas before Eames had been a wee bit upset about all those servants not being able to have gotten released, right now there wasn't a thought left in his mind, all attention directed at the adolescent in front of him.  
He couldn't decide which prospect sounded more appealing; save the child or discipline the brat? Teach him manners with a hard hand, but then soothe him like a father straight after. Ignore his very existence on Sundays, then ask about his past on Mondays.

The Brit blinked out of his thoughts when the sound of a door being closed echoed behind him.  
The boy seemed to flinch, as startled as Eames and his skinny body tensed up with a fear that had grown now that he was alone in this room with only Eames, Jack and Kevin.

“Jack.” Eames called, exhaling a breath he didn't know he'd been holding when the boy lowered his head, breaking eye-contact at last.  
“Bring me two chairs.”

It didn't take the soldier long to fetch the chairs from one of the corners of the room, dragging them towards the middle where Eames and the boy were stood. The legs scraped over the floorboards irritatingly loud, wood vibrating through Eames' shoes.  
Eames dismissed Jack once he'd gotten the chairs and proceeded to place one behind the kid. The boy flinched, though Eames wasn't certain if it was because of their close proximity or just the loud thump as he forcefully placed the seat on the floor.

“Jack, fancy leaving?” Eames spoke without looking over his shoulder at the soldier. It hadn't been a request. It was a clear command and as the young man exited the room, Eames noted how the German began sweating and shifting his eyes around nervously.  
Ignoring the man's guilty looks for the moment, Eames lowered himself on his chair, keeping three feet in between himself and the slave.

“Sit.” Eames commanded with a calm voice, yet this still didn't prevent the scrawny teenager from folding his hands back into white-knuckled fists. Now that he was positioned lower, it was easier to see the boy's face underneath the messy bangs and -such as he'd expected- was met by a leer and clenched jaws.

He was beautiful.  
Too beautiful for a boy. With high cheekbones, a tiny nose and almond-shaped eyes, there was a femininity to him which Eames had not often seen within boys his age. His neck was slender as were his wrists, fingers long and bony. He looked... elegant, delicate, perhaps even royal once he'd gotten a bath to bare that pale flesh hiding underneath dirt.  
His lower-lip was busted and swollen, but Eames could see the peculiar shape to the both of them.

' _Cupid-bow lips.'_

“Go on. Eyes down and sit.” Eames commanded for a second time, his voice soft with a feigned friendliness clinging to the intonation's edges. It was a one-time thing. The kid wouldn't get away with disobedience once he'd heard the Brit's expectations and rules. For now, however, it was acceptable.  
Though the curiosity on his youthful face amused Eames, there was still an arrogant flair to the boy, a suspicion which started to get under the Colonel's skin.

It took the mute another couple of prolonged seconds before he gingerly perched himself on the edge of the chair. He winced and grimaced with every move and Eames wasn't surprised by that, considering the kid looked like a bloody human boxing-ball.

“He's pretty beaten up, ain't he?” Eames fished, his sight focused on the boy -not wanting to miss a single twitch or shift in his body that would betray underlying thoughts and truths- and his voice directed at the German.

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Why?” The Brit questioned, tilting his head a tad to the side, observing the boy from a different angle. As far as he could tell, he wasn't glaring any longer. He looked _exhausted_ though.  
When the German didn't reply, Eames' sight set camp on his features, his own face void of any emotion that would betray to Erin what he was truly thinking at that time.

Eames wasn't a fool. He'd noticed the spite in the soldier's voice when addressing the kid or so much as talking _about_ him. There'd been glares cast upon the back of his head and this together with the fresh scraped wounds on the German's knuckles had notified Eames that he'd had been participating in the boy's recent abuse.  
A wave of red collided against his not-so-solid self-control. However, Eames managed to appear calm, even though he felt himself boiling from the inside out.

“He put up quite a fight, Colonel.” The German explained, brushing the back of his hand across his forehead which had started to shimmer with a nervous sweat.

“Well, surely nothing you're not capable of handling, am I correct, Nick?” Eames made sure to plaster a smile on his face and chuckle along with the words.  
Such as he'd expected, the German started laughing along, a hopeful look about him, as if he was truly believing Eames wasn't upset with him.  
' _What an idiot_.'

“Well, no, sir. I managed to handle the situation just fine.” Kevin replied and Eames watched his chest puff out, truly proud of having beaten up a defenseless child.  
Nonetheless, the Brit hummed understandingly, his eyes wavering between the two before he settled his gaze back on the boy in front of him.

“Now, this split lip, though...”

The kid recoiled aggressively when Eames reached out a gloved hand, before tilting his chin up to reveal his face. There'd been a split second in which the slave had desired to slap the Colonel's hand away, and naturally the latter had taken note of this. That being said, he let it all slide for now. Tomorrow was another day, a day in which the man would have more energy to scold this child.  
Eames could hear and see the mute taking a breath and holding it. He could feel him tremble just through the few fingers he'd placed upon his skin.  
His brown eyes were dark in the dim light and a fear-induced anger swirled within them. Unlike Eames he was horrible at hiding his emotions from his eyes. They told the man even more than his set jaw and flared nostrils.

“Eyes down.” Eames spoke quietly as the kid didn't seem to be planning on looking away any time soon, as if he'd set camp in the gray of Eames' gaze (most likely hoping to ambush him and stab a fork in 'em).  
However, he obeyed, though it got accompanied with a grimace of disgust on his features. The lids of his eyes fluttered shut and Eames vaguely grasped the ridiculous length to his black lashes.

“We-er, we had to keep him down, sir. He'd been forming a threat to our men.”

Eames scowled, pulling his hand away from the kid's chin and watched his head bow back down, chin to chest.

“A threat?” The Colonel repeated as he leaned back in his seat and directed his attention back to the German who only nodded.  
“Have you seen the state of him? He's _emaciated_.”

The boy's hands, which rested in his lap, folded back into fists. There was blood under his nails.

“Not to mention... He's but a child, soldier.” Eames continued, tearing his eyes away from the slave once again. He made sure to keep his voice calm, though he allowed Eric to see him glance at the reddened knuckles of his hands. Rick lowered the file he'd been clinging to his chest -like a shield- in a futile attempt to hide away the evidence of what he had done.  
But, going by the paleness of him, Eames was convinced that the German was now positive about his Colonel's awareness.  
To prove his point further, a long silence stretched between them in which the soldier stared at the floor and Eames glared daggers into his skull.

“My sincerest apologies, Colonel.”

Eames, for a second, indulged the fantasy of having this man apologize to the boy he'd assaulted... on his knees. But he had a facade to withhold for Saito's sake and thus he rose to his feet without saying another word.  
The German was now convinced that his apology had not been accepted and he and Eames both knew that his punishment would come sooner rather than later.

For now, Eames just wanted to get home and sleep all the stress of the night off. Well, first he'd need a cigarette or two, three.

Okay, six.

The man tutted thrice, moving his fingers in a come-hither manner in front of the kid's face, urging him to get up.  
The stiffness in the slave's joints was apparent in the slowness of his movements and the tensing of his muscles as he tried desperately to minimize any pain present within his body.  
With head still bowed, the mute stood still in front of Eames who took another moment to observe the finger-tip-shaped bruises on his arms and shoulders. It only fueled his hunger for vengeance. He didn't so much as know this kid, would probably come to despise him, but nonetheless the German who'd been a dog before, had now upgraded to being a pig in Eames' eyes.

“Get his clothes and fetch my men.” The Brit demanded in a lazy drawl as he went to the bar to grab his coat, scarf and hat.

“Right away, Colonel!” The German positively barked, stomping one foot onto the floor whilst bringing up a hand to his forehead in a salute. 'T was obvious that Kevin had begun his desperate attempts to please his Colonel and defuse the cruelty of his future punishment.  
Damn suck-up.

As Eames shoved an arm through the sleeve of his coat, his eyes couldn't help but search out the kid. He was still standing between the two chairs, his head still down though he'd brought up his hands to the nape of his neck, rubbing the muscles in an attempt to soothe them.  
The fabric of his wife-beater stretched taut over his narrow chest, exposing the shadows of the protruding ribs beneath. Eames felt a peculiar need to shove food into the boy's mouth.

The mute dressed himself when Eric had brought his clothes, which honestly seemed to be at least a decade old and having survived more than one World War. The soles of his shoes were starting to peel off of the heels, exposing some skin with every step he took. Eames watched him shuffle around, wondering why the kid thought he was free to move and do as he pleased at this very moment.  
However, before he could word his displeasure, the door opened to reveal the men Erin had fetched.

Eames clacked his tongue twice like one would do to call over a dog, the only thing missing being a hand slapping on the thigh. The boy tensed but did follow him towards the exit, nearly bumping into his back when Eames paused in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder at the German.

“Oh, and-” Eames began, watching Gustav or whatever-the-fuck-his-name-was, straighten up, fully fixated with ears perked.

“Yes, Colonel?”

The Brit left him hanging for a moment as he looked down at the short boy who acted as exhausted as he looked, not a fight in him. And he wondered how he'd ever come to get used to a stranger's company. More so, Eames was desperately curious of how the kid would be once he'd rested, bathed and had his belly filled with food to accompany the medication Eames was convinced he needed.

The Brit blinked slowly before resting a lazy stare on the German's face, and as he turned to leave the room he made sure to share what message he had for him.

“-Notify Mr. Saito that I have claimed a slave.”

* * *

 

 


	4. Part II.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rewritten (March 2015)

**Arthur.**

 

Arthur didn't like Eames for many reasons.

First one being that he was as British as a damn bag of 'Fish and Chips' waiting in the queue for a cup of Earl Grey tea.  
This alone was enough for the boy's mind to confirm the man as 'number one nemesis'. Though the kid hated all Brits, placing them under the same umbrella, this man really did score the gold of Arthur's wrath.  
Everything, from their messy dialects to their crooked teeth and those charming manners which held little to no authenticity, Arthur loathed of these natives. And it so happened that Eames possessed all those prejudiced aspects.

It didn't stop there, though.  
The adolescent rolled his eyes up the man's back as he walked in front of him, leading Arthur through a maze of underground hallways. Everything from the boots, the above-the-knee length coat to the visor-hat, made the boy's tongue grow dry and bitter at the display of military-participation. It was as well obvious that this man was not just a soldier. Arthur would've been able to tell even if he'd not witnessed this Brit's authority earlier that night in the room he'd occupied along with eleven more victims. Or, well, if he'd not heard the soldiers address this man as 'Colonel' in nervously high-pitched voices with trembling vocal chords.  
As if the man's nationality hadn't been enough to turn the boy's world upside-down, he'd had to go ahead and be part of forces which had burned the States to the ground. Along with it; Arthur's roots and childhood.

Amongst these eerie clarifications, Arthur as well was very much aware he'd be this man's personal servant.  
He'd have to submit to an Englishman, an Englishman who'd led battles to ruin the boy's identity years prior. He couldn't imagine himself in a worse spot than he was at now. Death sounded more appealing than to slave over a Brit, and that'd be if Arthur got off lucky.  
He could very well become this vile beast's whore. Arthur hadn't a clue as to what Eames had planned out for him and he couldn't decide between wanting to know and get it over with, or floating in a hopeful uncertainty for just a while longer.

Hope?  
Arthur frowned at himself. It was an emotion, a mindset, which he hadn't so much as remembered for the past years. The fact his subconscious brought this to the surface of soberness that very moment either meant Arthur was scared off his mind or simply too tired to maintain the lust for fight.

The kid did not enjoy being left hanging, he was one of those who preferred to rip the band-aid off in one go, recklessly, rather than carefully peel it from his skin only to stretch out the ache. So, it was indeed confusing for the adolescent to have his brain scrambled to bits; all over the place and unable to reform into a solid mass necessary to ground his thoughts.

It didn't help that the Brit didn't seem to be capable of keeping his mouth shut (which, by the way, was reason number umpteenth as to why Arthur did despise him more passionately than the average Englishman who'd crossed his path in the past). His endless chatter confused the boy to no end, for it made it so much harder to read him. Surely he was oozing a sly falseness along with his small-talk, but what was the reason for this?

Gain trust so he'd have more fun breaking Arthur down?  
Gain sympathy so he could mold him into the perfect servant more easily?

He hadn't seemed shy of a challenge earlier... Hence, it made no sense whatsoever.

Arthur carefully disassembled the memory of Eames having granted a merciful hand towards one of the slaves who'd accompanied Arthur in the room. He refused to see this man as anything but an emotionless, a heartless, a stenching excuse of a man eager to play games with the minds of the innocent.

 _'And the not so innocent.'_ Arthur's brain added, recalling how the Brit had messed about with the German who'd beaten Arthur to a bloody pulp only half a day ago (which, obviously, had not been the reason for having intimidated the soldier in the first place).

So... an asshole was what he was and that's where Arthur left it, ears carefully cupping the sounds of the man's voice which he'd blocked out for the greater part of their joined journey.

“-told me she was called Rose. Not only did their names match but she'd been a redhead as well, you see.” Eames had an irritating voice to say the least. There was a rasp to it which convinced the boy he was either a heavy drinker or a heavy smoker, probably both.

He watched the Colonel wave around his large hands, sheathed within black leather, as he continued his story with an almost child-like excitement. His back though, was still turned which pissed off Arthur not only because it was absolutely rude to do so, but also because it notified him of how unworried Eames seemed to be of him.  
The Brit hadn't even cuffed Arthur, didn't even bother keeping an eye on him, not perceiving him capable of a sneak-attack.

The pride, which Arthur had preserved with the best of efforts, got dented immediately.

“So, I told Jack; ' _Never let go of her, mate_ ' and he just stared at me with these saucer-sized eyes. I'd realized too late that his young age had prevented him from understanding where my joke had come from.” He paused in his step abruptly and Arthur barely managed to not bump into his back.

Eames glanced over his shoulder at the boy who on his turn hid his glare with lowering his head.

“Now that I come to think of it... You're even younger. So this must make no sense to you either, huh?”

Even if Arthur had understood the (apparently) 'joke', he'd not have bothered so much as being amused by it.  
He clenched his jaws, following when the Brit resumed his pace. Though he walked unhurried, his legs were long and strides wide, causing Arthur to fall behind a couple of steps every now and then. He was exhausted to the point he could barely lift a foot, let alone keep a steady and firm pace.  
Eames seemed to pause every other minute, slowing down slightly until Arthur caught up and the whole struggle started over again.

The boy knew this wasn't the man going easy on him.  
It was simply another subtle way of humiliating him and his prey-like position within the presence of this feline-like predator of a human being.

“It relates to a film. The joke.” Eames explained in a lazy drawl as they continued their way to a destination still obnoxiously unknown to the adolescent.

“I'm sure you've never seen one, but perhaps _have_ heard of them.”

He was wrong. Arthur _had_ seen movies back when he'd been a kid, before a world-wide crisis erupted from centuries of human-stupidity. It had been the forewarning of the Third World War which followed about a decade later. 'T had all began with poverty spreading around the globe like a plague, sickening middle-class and beginning riches.

“The film was about a girl named Rose, bush of red hair framing a pale face -very much like Jack's fiancee- and a guy going by Jack... They, on the other hand, are not much alike at all.”

Arthur tried to huff an annoyed sigh but ended up coughing into the crook of his arm which he'd brought up to his face. His lungs seemed to be desiring to crawl up his throat and spill from his mouth and the kid grimaced at the nauseating sensation which almost overpowered the stabbing rasp within his esophagus... Almost.  
He was exhausted to a point his brain had trouble keeping track of words or paying attention to one sensation for longer than five minutes in one go. Even Arthur's ear-drums seemed to have trouble keeping track of sounds as they got muffled repeatedly by a cause unknown. The boy had never needed sleep more than he did that very night.  
With a body bruised and abused and a head full of worry and fear, this was hardly considered unexpected.

“Long story short-” Eames continued when the boy's coughing-fit had passed.  
“The girl in the movie pleaded for Jack to never let go, only to end up peeling the guy's fingers from her hand so his frozen corpse could sink to the bottom of the ocean.” He snorted.  
“They'd been on a ship, you see. It sunk. Sure, Jack was dead but still that film could've handled it a tad more delicately when switching from that line to the ironic action going against her own words.”

Arthur stared daggers into the back of the Brit's skull. Praying for him to just shut his mouth for one minute so he could suffer in peace and focus on his steps which were uncertain with the wobbling of his knees and heaviness of his frame.  
Though he was uncertain of Eames' plotting going on behind his forced tale-telling, Arthur still optioned to grow more and more suspicious of the Brit.  
Even if the laid-back atmosphere was intended genuinely to soothe him, no one could or was to be trusted. Especially the Brits and Japs, such as Arthur's mother had taught him throughout their few years on the run together. And having seen different sorts of brutality and deception throughout his early teens, Arthur lived by this lesson.

Trust no one.  
Always expect a fly in the ointment. People always had a catch hidden behind their friendly facades. **Always**.

“What's your name, then, little one?”

Arthur stirred at the change of subject, peeking through his overgrown bangs and catching the Colonel throwing him a leer over his shoulder.  
Did he honestly think Arthur would be that easily fooled? Which, if he did, warned the kid that Eames was suspicious about him being legitimately mute. After all, he hadn't just simply 'forgot' about the assumption that Arthur was incapable of replying. This man, no matter how deeply Arthur already despised him, was anything but doltish.

The Colonel paused in his tracks and Arthur followed the example as he came to a halt a few feet behind him, making sure to not stand too close to the Brit. He wasn't certain of what was taking place and he could do nothing but stare into the enemy's eyes when the latter turned around to face him. Unknowingly the kid raised his chin the closer Eames got to him, to the point where his head was close to being tipped back for the man had only interrupted his nearing when an inch of air was left between both of their bodies.

Eames was much, much taller and his frame was broad to an extent Arthur was convinced this man could block out his sun for an eternity, literally as well as metaphorically. With exhaustion and physical aches having caught up with him, the boy had a hard time not cowering under the gray gaze above.

“Lesson number one;-” Eames murmured softly. Arthur nearly did not catch the words through the noise of his bloodstream coursing through his every vein.

He winced, shook, when Eames grabbed his chin between leather-clad fingers. Arthur had not seen the hand coming and hence could not prevent a whimper to crawl up the back of his tongue. He pressed his lips shut, swallowing the sound as his eyelids fluttered.

The Brit did not speak for a moment, just observed Arthur who on his turn was busy trying to read the man's blank face. What was his problem? The friendly chatter had passed? Enough small-talk? Time for molestation? Time for another beating?  
Arthur wasn't sure he'd survive another punch to the solar plexus. He already felt three quarters dead.

Eames exhaled through his nose, loudly, similar to an agitated sigh.

“-eyes down.” The Colonel concluded, his voice so soft it made the boy's skin crawl. A weak voice in the back of his head dared him to keep his gaze steady, to continue glaring into the gray eyes piercing his own.  
But god, was he tired. Empty. Lost.

Arthur gulped, throat dry and seemingly housing a dozen razors if the pain was anything to go by. He closed his eyes, engulfed within darkness and foolishly trying to let the emptiness of his vision convince him he was alone and gone from this man and this life that awaited Arthur with him.

“More specifically-” Eames spoke, his grip on Arthur's chin tightening when his teeth started to clatter not because of cold but because of a sickening anticipation.

“Eyes averted unless ordered else-wise.”

Another stretch of silence followed and it was only after a slight brush of Eames' thumb across the boy's jaw-line, that the man released him fully.  
Arthur swayed for a second, blinking open his eyes to gain some sense of balance and then collecting his wits in order to follow the Brit who'd already resumed his earlier pace. The skin on his chin burned where the man had placed his fingers only moments ago. Though he hadn't particularly practiced severe pressure, it still had left a tainting sting.

The walk towards their destination seemed to last forever. Arthur grew more tired with the second and his feet, by now, had started to drag over the concrete floors of the maze. The only comfort at that moment was that the Englishman had seized his chatter and a mind-numbing silence settled within Arthur's consciousness. Except for the thumps of Eames' footsteps and the rasp of Arthur's lungs, there was nothing to keep him grounded to reality.

Arthur floated. Similar to nodding off, yet being convinced you're still awake.

However, part of him suspected the new-found silence to be a kind of punishment. Though the small-talk had hardly been fueled by genuine empathy, there'd still been a reason behind it. Nonetheless, Eames had stopped any effort of interacting with the kid and even when being appreciative of the silence, Arthur did feel more on edge.  
Not hearing the man made it even harder to predict any actions he'd possibly perform.

Along with time, the hallways grew shorter and more narrow. Light-bulbs lessened in their presence and lost brightness along the way, instead casting eerie pitch-black shadows in every corner and on each turn. However, the temperature seemed to rise gradually. Or, perhaps, this was the boy's fever going into overdrive when noting a short flight of stairs in front of them.

Eames paused, waving a hand as he stepped aside, urging Arthur to go first.

The kid stirred, freezing into place and shifting his eyes from the steps to Eames' face and back.  
His fear simmered, boiling back up to the surface as images of possible murder or harassment flickered on the front of his eyeballs. Arthur didn't know this man at all. Didn't know if he was leading him up to a torture-chamber or would shoot him in the back of his head the moment he'd turn his back on the man to go up the stairs.  
Besides, his body felt like it desired to just crash down and Arthur doubted he could even make it five steps up. Gravity was being obscenely cruel to the boy.

“Eyes down.” The Brit murmured softly, a few wrinkles shadowing between his eye-brows as he frowned to himself. There was little to no illumination cascading over the pair and Arthur watched the shades on the man's face dance along with his agitated expression.  
The boy swallowed down a whimper, dipping his chin to his chest and staring at his feet. A sense of despair washed over him. A feeling that would seep into your bloodstream the moment you got confronted with how you are alone and there's no one on this earth to come up and save you.

Arthur was here. With this man. Alone. He had no excuse to remain living, not for the enemy, and neither did he have any advantage of winning a future fight. Even if he'd stab this man to death in his sleep (that is if he himself would even survive that long) there still was no way out.  
This maze was impossible to remember if you had not spent months roaming through it, and there'd been various armored doors which not only required keys but as well numeral codes to unlock.

“Go on.” Eames urged, his voice almost too soft to break through the endless high-pitched tone assaulting Arthur's eardrums.  
A light tap on his shoulder followed when Arthur didn't move for various seconds. He stirred, naturally. For the life of him, Arthur could not move a muscle. He was petrified by a fear only highlighted by the illness he'd been carrying with him for the past months.

Eames' fingers once again placed themselves on the boy's bony shoulder, his palm flattening out over it, emphasizing how large his hands actually were. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, taking a careful deep breath, trying to avoid another coughing-fit.  
The Brit leaned down slightly, closer to the shorter man's level.

“Look at me...” He whispered, causing Arthur to tremble on his legs. A cold sweat rushing over his emaciated body.  
He opened his eyes slowly, folding his fingers into tight fists and swallowing down the thickness in his throat. It was hard to breathe, hard to comprehend and think and rationalize.  
Was he about to pass out?

Somehow, when meeting the man's gray gaze, Arthur's mind cleared from some of its fog and he managed to focus in the now.

“Are you _incapable_ or are you _unwilling_ to ascend these stairs?”

The question was absurd, causing Arthur to almost burst out into a hysterical fit of giggles. He bit back his grimace and looked away, not able nor willing to reply to the man faking actual consideration.

“You have three seconds to start climbing that staircase or I will drag you up by your hair.” Eames spoke with an intonation similar to that of someone commenting on the weather. Arthur found it astonishing how this man could form such threatening words in such a light tone of voice.  
Nevertheless, even with his blank face accompanying the softly worded threat, Arthur wasn't doubting this Colonel was one hundred percent serious with what he'd said. This man had a reputation. Arthur had heard his name on the street before. Not to mention he'd witnessed first-handedly how obnoxiously-loud and violent soldiers had cowered and hushed the moment Eames treaded into the room earlier that night.

So he stepped forwards, placing a hand on the rough-textured banister and lifting a heavy foot onto the first step. The effort seemed even more exhausting after having stood still for a couple of minutes, his body already shutting down as it had hoped to rest for hours to no end.  
Eames' eyes burned into the back of his skull and with great effort Arthur took his second step, pulling up his body rather than actually lifting it.

Having his back turned to the Colonel made the boy's skin crawl. Eames had shown him his handgun about an hour ago, babbling on about the caliber and the damage it could cause to the human body. He'd been smirking, as if there was an inside joke going on between him and the inanimate object, and Arthur had understood the warning loud and clear.  
So, with that burnt into his conscious, Arthur couldn't stop himself from glancing over his shoulder.

Eames looked up at him, raising one eyebrow in question as he waited for Arthur to go up higher so he could follow up the steps. Both of his large hands gripped the banisters, his body slightly hunched forwards which only seemed to emphasize the broadness of his shoulders.

He'd be able to snap Arthur's neck with one hand... Hell, with three fingers more like.

“Go on.” The man whispered, as if not wanting to startle the boy who surely had a deer-like expression on his face.

After another couple of seconds Eames took a step up and wrapped his fingers around Arthur's upper-arm. The boy winced before starting to tug, a high-pitched whine rolling against the back of his teeth and closed lips. His heart immediately upped its pace, pounding rapidly against his ribcage as Arthur took shallow breaths in great effort to get the man's hand off of him.

The fear hit him with such power it blinded him from any rationality and caused his survival instinct to erupt in streaks of aggression.  
However, he was drained, starved, muscles gone sour and it took Eames little to no time to lock his wrists behind his back with one hand. His other hand slapped itself down on the nape of Arthur's neck and the kid inhaled too deeply. Eames held him through his coughing and rasping, waiting but nonetheless holding him firmly in place.

It took Arthur several minutes to catch his breath and find proper footing rather than leaning heavily against the banister with only its wood and Eames' hands keeping him from dropping down.

“Now, listen carefully,-” Eames' voice rumbled deep in his chest, Arthur could swear he felt it tremble all the way from the man's fingertips into his own body, quivering his heart and fluttering his lungs.

“I'm not going to repeat myself.”

Arthur remained still when Eames let go of his hands, though the fingers digging in his neck maintained position.

“Accept my help or suffer my force.”

It was a simple decision, of course, and though Arthur had initially not desired the man's help by far, he neither had meant to fight him like that. It had just happened. Arthur was an explosive character, would function better when backed into a corner than when left to plot and ponder.  
Perhaps 'better' wasn't the right word to use for that night.

After a careful breath, Arthur climbed another step, noting how the hand on his neck softened its grip though it still seemed to support him against gravity.  
It took them close to forever to reach the floor above but when they did Arthur collapsed, barely felt the man hook hands under his arms before a nauseating wave smothered him into blackness.

* * *

 

 

The boy woke with a pounding headache, his breathing still labored but far less severe than it had been-

Arthur snapped his eyes open as the last events in his memory returned to him. He quickly glanced around the room he was in. Thankfully it wasn't the one he'd shared with the other victims and more so grateful he was to not yet spot a soldier in sight.  
The chandelier, casting a soft orange to light the dark room, was waving slightly which made Arthur grow wary of recent movement having taken place. Without lifting his head he mapped out the space. A door to his left, a desk across of him close to the back-wall and apparently a bed above him.

He stirred at that, carefully rolling his head so he could look at the furniture he was lain underneath.

This must be the Colonel's bedroom... What if he was on the bed?

Arthur tried to catch a sound other than his own raspy breathing which he slowed down forcefully to feign sleep, but several minutes later there still wasn't a sign of anyone's presence other than his own. The ticks of a nearby clock nerved Arthur's patience and as he gulped down the ache in his throat towards his equally-painful stomach; he started to crawl carefully from under the bed. His body hurt horrible, every inch of it feeling as if it'd died and resurrected several times.

The wooden floorboards creaked under his elbows and the kid squeezed his eyes shut, stopping abruptly and holding his breath, expecting Eames to slam the door, burst into the room and cut his throat like a pig on row slaughter.  
However... nothing happened.

It took Arthur a couple of tries to pull himself from the floor onto his wobbly legs, but he managed and when he was mere feet separated from the door it did swung open. And Eames did appear.

They both froze at the same time, stopped in their tracks as they eyed each other warily. Eames was the first to straighten up, blinking and allowing his shoulders to sag a bit.

“'Morning.” He greeted, letting Arthur know immediately that he'd blacked out throughout the rest of the night. The boy bit on the inside of his lips, shutting his mouth as he watched Eames look at his face before glancing over his shoulder.

“Take those.” He nudged his chin to somewhere behind Arthur but the boy was clever enough not to turn his back towards this Brit. He was still waiting for the knife to be stabbed through his spine.

Another long silence followed before Eames huffed, blinking as if to get rid of some annoyance, as he removed his coat. Arthur watched him discard the clothing on a hook next to the door which he shut softly, locking it and making sure to flash the key into Arthur's sight before pocketing it.

As if the Colonel held the endings of Arthur's nerves, he started to tremble on the spot because of him. At this point in time, half-asleep, starved, bruised and alone, a part of Arthur would be glad to receive whatever it was that Eames had planned to force upon him. He wanted it to pass, wanted the man to get it over with, wanted to get rid of this sickeningly heavy weight of anticipation tearing through his stomach and swelling in his skull.

Therefore he did held his eye. Did ignore the command to avert his gaze and though he did wince when Eames grabbed him by the hair, there was a side to the event that allowed him to exhale again.

Eames dragged him through the room, Arthur barely managed to keep up with the pace. But with both of his hands wrapped around the Brit's wrist, he managed to hold himself up even though his feet kept tripping. Arthur had not noticed the door before when scanning the room, for it had been positioned behind him, but Eames did drag him towards it, opening it hard-handedly.

A light got turned on, the sound of clicking chiming off the tile walls as a white illumination flickered around them. Arthur blinked along with it, witnessing a bathroom like no other he'd seen in the past years.  
Though it was aged, it was clean and though it was small it still contained a bathtub large enough to fit Arthur into it twice.

Eames' grip on his hair loosened and with it Arthur's nails decreased their pressure into the skin of the man's wrist.

“Undress.” The word seemed to glide into the boy's ears, dirty and slimy. The man's hand retracted from holding his hair and it was until various seconds after the sound of the door shutting behind Arthur, that the kid realized he was alone in the room.

He peered carefully over his shoulder, noting the door didn't have an inside lock.

Nonetheless, for now, he was alone and thus allowed himself to have his shoulders sag from their hunched tension, letting out a shuddering breath. He was shaking like a leaf, blood-pressure dropping and rising like a roller-coaster. The back of Arthur's head stung where his hair had been held far too tightly and he stroked fingers across his scalp as he tried to calm his pounding heart.

“Fuck...” The boy breathed softly, realization dawning over him, his blood seeming to pool at his feet as he grew heavier with the second. He hadn't eaten in days, had barely drank anything either and he knew that if he were to heave it'd hurt insanely much. Arthur swallowed a couple of times, ignoring the pain as best as he could before starting to peel his shirt off with arms crossed across his stomach.

Though being naked was the last thing he wanted to be (and this time not because of any temperature-related logicalities for the room was pleasantly warm) Arthur feared more so the anger his disobedience could trigger out of this man. After all, if the aggression for not having averted his eyes was anything to go by... this man was to be watched closely and Arthur knew he'd be treading eggshells for however long he'd remain alive.  
But, Arthur also knew that he'd never be able to contain his actions and pride-induced anger once he'd feel physically strengthened.

Nonetheless, both of them seemed to be wired dominantly, pride and arrogance in overflow and Arthur was sure that they as well shared a desire for control. They were a cocktail for disaster.

Again Arthur was astonished by how difficult Eames was to read. Where he'd been asking him, voice soft and considerate, whether he'd been incapable or unwilling to climb a flight of stairs, only moments later Eames had grabbed the back of his neck in an aggressive display of 'support'.  
He'd helped him up the stairs, had carried him to his room and then had, for some absurd reason, scooted him under the bed. Why? So Arthur could feel more safe waking up? Or was it to have the boy disorientated and make it harder for him to go running the moment he'd witness Eames peering under the bed?

That being said, he'd just grabbed him by the hair, dragging him in here like an animal... So, Eames certainly wasn't a nice man and even if he were... He seemed to have a damn hard time of controlling his darker side.

Arthur grimaced at so much the consideration of Eames possessing a kind heart-string.

Shaking his thoughts away, Arthur looked around the bathroom, absentmindedly undoing the fly of his pants.

The sink, to the left of the bath-tub was not exactly sparkling white, but it was very polished such as the toilet in the farthest corner and then the bath itself-... Arthur hadn't seen clean washrooms in years and he gingerly lifted the lid off the bowl's seat, almost in awe of the clear water.  
Some water-pipes weren't hidden within the concrete walls and only showed some rust at edges here and there where the flaky flower-patterned wallpaper did not reach.

Arthur stepped out of his pants, leaving it on the floor together with the shirt and sweater he'd discarded earlier and turned around to the sink. He leaned on the porcelain, toeing off his worn shoes and avoiding his reflection in the mirror which missed a corner and had some dotted patches of rust on its edges. If his face looked like it felt, Arthur was convinced not even the dotted markings could hide the gruesomeness of his features. It was bad enough _feeling_ the pain, no need to actually see it and trigger even more flashbacks.

With a groan the boy leaned an elbow on the edge of the sink, bringing up a leg to peel off his one and only dirty sock. He'd lost the other one a couple of weeks ago when being chased by a couple of dogs, released by the owner from which Arthur had stolen as much food as he'd been able to carry in his skinny arms.

Dropping the sock on the floor along with the other articles of clothing, Arthur's eyes fell on the low wooden cabin next to the toilet. The doors had been removed, revealing two shelves which carried towels, soaps and what seemed to be a shaving-kit.  
For a split second Arthur wondered how good of a weapon a razor would prove to be, but the sound of nearing footsteps distracted him immediately, instead convincing him to make sure to put some space between himself and the door.

As his knees backed up against the tub, the door opened (less aggressive than Arthur had expected it to) and in came the Colonel, carrying a bundle of clothes on one arm. He stared at him, wide-eyed, though Eames seemed to be too busy frowning at the clothes on the floor to be giving him any attention.

The Colonel quirked an eyebrow.

“What a bloody mess.” He murmured, his lower-jaw jutting forward causing his full lips to appear pouting. When the man kicked the door shut behind him, Arthur noticed he was no longer wearing shoes and -if he remembered correctly- neither what he'd been wearing before; his wardrobe changed. He looked a tiny bit less intimidating, but probably only because Arthur knew he could stomp him on the foot if he'd come too near and threaten him.

The boy watched Eames lay the fabrics he'd been carrying down in the dry sink, a pack of cigarettes followed to be placed upon the clothes.  
As he turned to pick up Arthur's dirty garments off the floor, the latter tensed because of the close proximity. The bathroom was small enough to cause the man's broadness to appear stifling and it'd take him barely two steps to reach the boy. However, with Eames' attention focused solely on the task at hand -picking up Arthur's clothes- the teenager could prevent himself from trying to knee the man in the face. So, instead, he watched, muscles tensed and ready to react.

When Eames went to stand straight-up, Arthur took notice of the handgun tucked between the man's back and belt of his pants. It was too late to jump over Eames' head and go to grab the gun and even if Arthur would've managed to do so it'd still not grant him a way out of here.

The Colonel started folding the clothes in his arms and Arthur watched his large hands move swiftly as they worked the fabrics before discarding them on the cabin to the toilet's left. After that he turned to face the kid, hands on his hips and an impatient tapping of his foot on the tiled floor.

“Pants.” He ordered, causing Arthur to stir at the loudness of his voice. It wasn't that he'd raised it, but being locked in such a small space with him, watching him tower and stare made the boy's brain drink in every detail that much brighter and so much more eerie.

Arthur awaited further explanation, confused about the man's intention.

“Briefs.” Eames added, waving a finger at the boy's lower-regions.

When realizing what he meant, Arthur grabbed hold of the worn elastic of his underwear (not pants, mind you), knuckles turning white. He shook his head, not at all up for taking off the only garment left to not have this man ogle him, to not tempt him to do far worse things to him than Arthur had already experienced in the past.

Though the adolescent kept his eyes casted down, hoping that this alone could cool down an expected rage to boil within the Brit, he was still firmly holding the fabric of his underwear, tangling and hooking it in his fingers.

“You're too young.” Eames said after a long silence and the kid didn't know what that was supposed to mean, so he carefully glanced up through his greasy bangs.

“If you're worried about me fancying you-” The man explained further.  
“-I'm not.”

Their eyes met through the kid's black hair and as Arthur held his breath, Eames waggled his finger once again, nodding his head to urge him on.  
Though he'd just assured Arthur, indirectly, that he was not planning on molesting him, the kid still found it hard to believe this man had any lines he'd not cross for his own benefit. However, even if he'd been genuine, Arthur knew he'd have to get rid of the garment to not suffer this man's explosive wrath.  
The thought of being undressed by his hands made him sick to his stomach so after a few gulps he released the elastic in order to hook his thumbs behind it. Expectantly it took him another good minute of calming down his heart-beat before he finally managed to pull down his underwear over his thighs, down to his ankles.

“Give it.”

Arthur obeyed, bending over to pick up the dirty piece of fabric and gingerly dropping it in the man's outreached hand.

“Bath.” The Colonel continued his vague commands as he discarded the briefs on the pile of Arthur's dirty clothes.

When Arthur didn't move, half-frozen with fear and riddled to motionlessness with the vagueness, Eames snapped thumb and middle-finger towards the bathtub behind the boy. An involuntary wince erupted from Arthur's system at the loud sound.

Nonetheless, Arthur obeyed, not having much of a choice with a man in his presence who was over twice his size, carrying a hand-gun and having hands big enough to strangle a horse. Arthur was exhausted, dreaded to give this creature any more reason to treat him like a petty slave and thus the kid turned around, carefully stepping into the empty tub.  
The porcelain was cold underneath his feet, sending a shiver from toes to the top of his head and instinctively he hugged himself.

“Right, now-” Eames began, walking towards the edge of the tub, hand reaching around Arthur towards the faucets. The boy shrank visibly, carefully sucking in his stomach and avoid any and all contact with the Brit.

“I'm gonna turn on the shower, yea? 'S gonna be cold. But, don't dare move away from the spray.” A pause followed in which it was obvious Eames was awaiting some kind of reply, so Arthur peeked up, leering at the man through his lashes but not nodding nor shaking his head.

“That's a command.” He concluded before turning one of the squeaky faucets and pulling away.  
Arthur only clenched his jaw, straightening up and looking at the wall-art the foot-end of the tub, fingernails digging into the skin of his upper-arms. He'd go to hell and back before allowing this man to have him agree to a cold shower simply for the man's cruel idea of entertainment, or perhaps punishment.  
Never mind what was the reasoning behind it, Arthur hadn't a choice either way. As if shaking his head would make him stop... A preposterous thought, that.

Eames leaned against the sink against the opposite wall from the bathtub's side, giving the Brit a clear and full view of Arthur's left-side.

The anticipation was more obnoxious than it was scary. Arthur listened to the echoing noise of pipes clacking before finally water spluttered from the shower-head. Not a second after the stream burst out, cascading a wave of ice over Arthur's bony figure. He gasped, his lungs seeming to shrink at the impact, his vision whiting out for a couple of seconds. The liquid rained down on his weak frame, stinging his shoulders and the crown of his head as he tried to crawl into himself, hunching and embracing his chest. It was a dozen times more painful than he'd imagined.

Arthur gasped for breath continuously, body eager to try and heat itself up by pumping blood rapidly underneath his cooling skin and there was a split second in which he contemplated stepping away from the stream, figuring that any punishment would be kinder than this sadistic and medieval torture.  
Nevertheless, Arthur didn't. Whether it be pride or simple mind-over-matter, Arthur maintained.

The top-row of his teeth sunk deeply into his lower-lip, drawing blood easily from the fresh scab having split the skin earlier when he'd gotten the beating from that soldier. It stung, distracting only minimally from the pins-and-needles pain of ice-water. Arthur's headache reawakened immediately, his muscles tensing to a point he felt that any inch of him could start cramping within seconds. His breathing was labored even more than it already been. He gasped, non-stop, swallowing down whimpers and coughs.

However still, as Arthur buried his chin against his chest, this physical pain could not be compared to the absolute agony his conscious was experiencing as it hit him -as harshly as the water- that his life was forever changed. He was now this man's slave. A slave to an Englishman, a slave to an Englishman leading England on its path to assassinate America, Arthur's roots. He was trapped, freedom further away than he'd ever been able to fear it to.  
Even if Arthur would manage to stab this man in the face in his sleep, there was still no way out as he was lost in an underground maze guarded by soldiers and highly-secured doors every other corner.

It was over.

The boy swallowed down the nauseating lump in his throat, praying he'd just lose consciousness at this point for his pride would not allow him to step away from the stinging bite of the stream.  
It lasted forever.  
Arthur stared at his own feet, the water flowing over the bridges, slowly going from a brown to a clear cleanliness as it washed away most of the dirt having collected on his body.

By the time Eames walked over to turn off the faucet; Arthur's skin was tingling and his bones clattered with the tremors rocking his tiny body, head to toe. His mind was as blank as the clarity of the water at his feet and for a split second Arthur pondered -perhaps hoped- that his thoughts had washed away with the dirt. He'd be blessed were he to grow mindless, numb, go through life without emotion, opinion or hope.

Nonetheless, even with his physical and emotional pain numbed, Arthur still flinched when Eames slowly cradled his bony shoulders with one arm. And he wanted to pull away, really he did, but he was exhausted and the warmth of the man's chest as he'd pulled Arthur against it; was far too welcoming for his worn conscience. He did hold his breath. Did not relax against the man's figure and a hysterical voice in the back of his frozen skull told him his neck was about to be snapped by this brute.

But death never came.  
Instead of welcoming eternal sleep, the Brit rested his nose on the top of Arthur's head, his exhales hot enough to penetrate the thick wet strands and reach his scalp.

“Well done.” He murmured. His voice rumbled in his chest, reminding and disgusting Arthur at how closely he was pressed against him. But as he was to pull away, Eames beat him to it, patting his shoulder and letting him go without a second glance. The lack of his body allowed a cold breeze to shiver the kid.

“Down.” Eames commanded softly and it took Arthur quite a handful of seconds before his ice-cube of a brain processed the word. He watched Eames' back for a moment as he moved around in the bathroom -looking for something- before inhaling deeply. His fingers were bright-red against the white-porcelain as he grabbed the edges of the tub, lowering himself carefully and slow, joints aching.

Though Arthur felt tired, exhausted, too worn to so much as produce any fear of what was about to happen, 'broken' was the only word he could come up with to describe himself at that exact moment. He felt broken, flawed, damaged, shattered into pieces so tiny they'd never be able to stick back together. As depressing as that thought was, Arthur couldn't find the energy to care and this time barely flinched when Eames walked back towards the bathtub.

The boy hugged his knees to his chest, dipping his chin in between the joints and lazily, unseeingly, stared at the man's hand going to turn faucets. His hands were large, bruised on the knuckles, skin at least three shades darker than Arthur's. Contrary to Arthur's feminine bone-structure -be it in his face, wrists or feet- Eames was all man, top to bottom.

Arthur's lungs seemed capable of expanding once he could feel warm liquid pooling at his feet and he closed his eyes for a moment, reveling in the soothing temperature thawing his little toes.

“The cold shower served as punishment for being disobedient earlier tonight. Disobedient, more specifically, as in putting up a fight and generally not taking action the moment you're commanded to.”

The boy opened his eyes at the sound of Eames' voice, peeking over his knees, through his wet bangs and watching him pour liquid soap into the water at Arthur's feet which by now had risen to above ankle-height.

“Nonetheless, as you're new at this and have yet to learn the rules, not to mention how you've taken your punishment like a brave-hearted young man, I think you're deserving a nice bath, no?” Eames' question was rhetorical and Arthur's skin crawled at the sweet tone to it.  
Arthur wondered as to what 'this' actually was. What did Eames mean with that? Slavery? For all he knew things could get a lot worse. Granted, the boy had been expecting an assault from the start. He was surprised to not have had the back of a gun whipped against his head or worse; having been devoured by this insatiable hunger men seemed to possess for the flesh. The latter of those Arthur had always managed to escape from and he was forever grateful for this. Men had tried... Fuck, had they tried, but Arthur wasn't a little boy inside like he appeared to be outside. The amount of violence he'd practiced out of self-defense still sickened him when so much as starting to recall the memories.  
In a world this grim it was hard to find those bright tales of your past which undoubtedly had been destroyed in an inferno of shock and survival which had no choice but to trail in your conscience.

The boy's focus fell back on Eames when he started to swirl a finger through the water, spreading around the soap and causing it to foam at the surface. Arthur clenched his legs shut, curling his toes and hugging his knees even more tightly to his body.  
It was this anticipation, this unknown 'when' and 'what' that truly made the kid sick to his stomach. He knew Eames was a despicable creature and he knew he'd not chosen him just out of pity... Eye for an eye. There would be a fruit to reap sooner or later.

Arthur had difficulty in placing an age on Eames. He looked young but the lines in his face and around his eyes told else wise. He tried to find anything to dehumanize the man in front of him, but it was surprisingly hard when seeing the vulnerability in the little things such as his exposed neck and the laziness of his movements. However, a flashback to how the man had forced him up the staircase earlier swiped any compassionate thought off the table.

This was an animal.  
The most charming men were those who you needed to watch out for. Eames was as fake as they got. Arthur had to keep that in mind when being this tired and this comfortable, embraced by warm water up to his chin.

“Lean back and relax. I'll fetch something for that lip of yours.” Eames softly spoke, standing up and turning towards the wooden cabinet to his left. Arthur watched his movements, grimacing at the mass of his body which was evermore apparent when his back was turned and he was squatting down. His sleeves had been rolled up to his elbows and Arthur noticed scratches on them... This man either tripped in awkward positions, or he was a mean fighter.

Such as he did not want to stretch out his body, Arthur as well did not desire to have this man have a look at his lip. The kid had had injuries thirty times more serious and except for a heck-ton of scars they'd all healed well.  
When Eames rose, the metal of his gun which he'd tugged behind his belt on his back, glistened as it caught light, reminding Arthur once more why he shouldn't put too much effort into fighting this Brit.  
Not tonight that is.

The kid closed his eyes, blocking out the obviousness of Eames looking down at him, most likely upset Arthur had yet to stretch out his body and present his lip.  
However, the Englishman didn't seem too bothered and soon enough he sat himself down next to the tub, unpacking the first-aid-kit he'd brought with him and Arthur listened to the silence being atmosphered with the soft sounds of his hands and the dripping of the tap.

“Let me have a look, yea?” Eames urged after a long, peaceful hum of silence. Arthur's eyes flickered open, his mind hazy and his muscles relaxed. Sleep was catching up on him and he could tell by how pliant and less paranoid he was feeling. Well, still paranoid, but less willing to throw a fit.

With his brain shut down half into dream-land, the other half somewhere at the bottom of the bathtub, Arthur tilted his head up. He crossed his arms more firmly, turning his head towards Eames and nudging his chin in the crease of his elbow.

The Brit leaned closer slightly, eyes narrowing as he looked at Arthur's bust lip. The kid watched Eames, wary and groggy.  
After another beat, Eames pulled away, nodding to himself as he started rumbling through the kit in his lap. Arthur watched the man hold different bottles and tubes between his fingers, his nose nearly against the products in order to read the tiny-printed labels.

“This'll take two minutes.” Eames shared before uncapping a small glass bottle. As it opened Arthur immediately smelled it was disinfectant. For a second longer Arthur observed the man's face as he poured some of the liquid on a cotton ball. The realization that this was the face of a man he'd have to live with for however long Eames would desire his company, was impossible to describe. Arthur was stuck with this man... of whom he knew nothing about. All that he was aware of was that Eames was the enemy, simple as that.

Eames turned to face him, shifting a bit to seat himself more comfortably in Lotus position before he brought up the drenched cotton ball. Arthur closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and noticing how it was easier to breathe now that his lungs were soothed in the heath of the bath-water. It felt impossibly heavenly, as if his insides had gotten smeared with honey and painkillers.

“Jut it out a bit.” The Englishman murmured softly, thought in the close proximity it still caused Arthur to flinch. He did obey, closing his eyes more tightly and pouting his lower-lip in a make-shift sulk.  
The pain that followed had been expected. However, a sting on his lip was the least of Arthur's worries and except for a barely audible inhale, the kid showed no signs of hurt or distress.

Eames was thorough, such as Arthur had expected this man to be with anything and though he doubted it to be true; the kid liked to think this man was intentionally taking his time on the wound just to torture that tiny bit more.

“Ointment.” The man murmured after a long minute of disinfecting the cut in Arthur's lip. The boy exhaled through his nose slow and long when Eames pulled away, though his eyes remained closed. As welcoming it was to not have to witness the man by sight, the lack of this only heightened other aspects of the Brit. His scent, for starters, heavily lingered with aftershave and tobacco, a smell Arthur knew all too well from times when life had not been this rough. Eames' voice, though, was what shook him the most. It rumbled deep, no matter how low its volume was, it still seemed to radiate out of the Brit right into Arthur's chest, rattling his ribcage and shaking his skin into goosebumps.

Arthur winced when warm finger-tips gently rested themselves against one side of his chin. It took all his effort to not pull away, to not press his lips together and growl at the physical touch. The first physical touch that was not intended to hurt him... Nor was it intended to heal him.  
It was just simply there so keep him in place.

The boy inhaled, his breathing rasping as if Eames' touch alone had kicked his lungs back down the meat-grinder.

Nonetheless, his mission at that point was to stay as calm and obedient as possible because Arthur knew, he could feel it in every inch of him, that he'd not be able to cope another fight. He was beaten black and blue, his stomach still empty, his skin dry of dehydration, his mind... He couldn't even begin to comprehend the state of his emotional wellbeing.

So Arthur tried breathing as slow as possible, ignoring as best as he could how Eames' fingertips seemed to burn right through his skin. His thumb was calloused. Arthur could feel it through the thick layer of ointment the man was carefully smearing over and into the wound on his lip.

“Try not to lick your lips.” Eames advised softly, stroking his thumb one last time over Arthur's wound before finally letting go of him and standing up.  
Arthur's eyes fluttered open and he watched the Brit move around the tiny room, cleaning up and discarding the aid-kit back in the cabin.

“Feel free to relax a bit in here. I'll be back in an hour. There's warm water left if your bath cools off.” Eames casually shared, dropping a clean towel on the edge of the tub before fetching Arthur's dirty clothes in his arms and turning towards the door.

“Clean clothes are in the sink.” He added, almost hesitantly and Arthur watched the man leave from the corner of his eye. The door closed behind his broad figure, and the click of a lock being turned chimed loudly off the walls.

Arthur exhaled harshly, finally able to breathe properly again, or rather as good as his health allowed him to. As he uncoiled his body, stretching his sore limbs and laying back, chin dipped under water, the kid tried to comprehend the situation.  
He now officially was at a loss of understanding. Arthur hadn't a clue as to how to handle this man he'd had to share the last moments of his life with. Where he'd been dragging him up a staircase by his neck, he now had bathed him and taken care of his split lip.  
Confusion didn't come close explaining what Arthur was experiencing.

With a sigh he closed his eyes, promising himself in a vague setting of mind that once he'd be rested and re-energized he'd act up and rebel against this Englishman who'd picked him like cattle-stock. For now, his exhaustion and sore muscles emptied him from emotion.

All in all, Arthur realized that his life wouldn't ever be the same again. No matter if he'd get killed or released, he was certain that Eames would leave a stamp on him, would infect him, poison him. He'd come out of this worse than his future had been expected to be in the first place.  
Undoubtedly his past hadn't been promising more either. Living on the streets, eating less food than a baby, coughing his lungs out on a daily basis... Arthur had knows he'd end up dead before his eighteenth birthday. But still, that'd been better than being captured by the enemy. The realness of his current position made the boy's skin crawl, hairs on the back of his neck rising in agitation.

Even with the little hope he'd had left back on the streets, there'd still been freedom, there'd still been 'what if's'. Arthur had possessed that last grain of childish positivism, no matter how bitter and grim he tended to think and act.  
It was only now, with literally no way out any longer, that it hit him ten times harder than it could've ever have before.

All his dreams, or what had been left of them, had now been abandoned somewhere outside in London's ruins. There wasn't a chance he could go fetch 'em back. Nor was there a single opportunity to reevaluate them and unfold before-unseen ways out.

The fight was lost, over.

The boy groaned softly, sinking lower into the tub, as if following his aspirations down the drain until he was buried under the soapy water-line.  
He held his breath until his sore lungs started to spasm for air and he had no choice to come back up and face reality, leaving the old dreams behind and opening his eyes to the stinging present.

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Part III.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rewritten (May 2015)

** Eames. **

 

By the time Eames returned to the bathroom, the kid had already drained the bath and was now seated; perked on the edge of the tub, towel wrapped around his narrow shoulders.  
He looked frail and pale, even more so than last night, and the bags under his eyes had gotten impossibly darker to the point it was hard to tell them apart from the bruises around his eyelids. His gaze was lowered to the hands he'd rested on his lap, no sign of curiosity towards the man who decreased the space in between them.

“Here.” Eames murmured lowly, reaching out a glass of water and medication which he'd discarded on the night-stand besides his bed earlier. The boy glanced through his wet bangs at Eames' hands.

“They're pain-killers and antibiotics. Are you allergic to anything? Penicillin?” He asked, tilting his head sideways as he awaited the child's reply. The mute shook his head once and surprisingly enough -after dragging the towel from his shoulders onto his lap- reached out a hand, palm up.

As he watched the boy swallow down the medication, experiencing great difficulty doing so -even with the large gulps of water to wash them down- Eames felt a jab of half-arsed pity within his chest. He'd never put thought into it and couldn't say he'd always been a non-believer about it but, yes, in that moment Eames could without a doubt read the misery on the boy's emotionless face. Sparkling or dull eyes be damned, he _could_ see it in those pupils, a fact which for a split second startled him.  
All in all, the mute looked beaten -physically as well as emotionally- and not a fight seemed left in a single bone in his scrawny body.

“Hungry?” Eames asked over his shoulder as he discarded the empty glass on the sink.

The teen, unsurprisingly, did not reply and his sight remained focused on his little toes curling and uncurling over the cold tiles. Eames followed the boy's gaze, grimacing at the rawness of his pale skin. Even the insteps of the kid's feet were scraped and bruised and the Englishman preferred not to think about the location and shape of them; proving that he'd been dragged over pavement by force, legs dangling weakly.

The colonel licked his lower-lip before commanding the boy to rise with a curt ' _up_ '.

Though with effort, the teenager did rise, wincing at the soreness in his muscles as well as swaying by the weakness that came with a poor diet practiced over a longer period of time.

“Can you dress yourself?” Eames asked, watching with a frown as the boy didn't appear capable of standing still; swaying this way and that, his face growing paler with the minute. After a second of watching the stubbornness within his refusal to either nod or shake his head; Eames retrieved one of garments out of the sink behind him.

“Hand me the towel.” Eames reached out his free hand, inhaling slow and deep to not grow agitated at how long it took the kid to obey simple orders. Such as he'd done before with his knickers, the boy now clenched the towel which dangled in front of his lower body. However, before Eames could so much as repeat himself, he dropped the cloth to the tiled floor beneath.

The Englishman took a moment to take in the sight beheld in front of him. A man would almost cringe at the apparent beauty within the child. There was a pureness that seeped effortlessly through the damaged cocoon of his body. Even with the swollen lip and purple-red bruises covering nearly the whole left side of his face, he was unmistakably breathtaking. His body, though underfed, was covered in a pale skin that stretched over the bony structures and wiry muscles as good as perfectly.

He was beautiful to a point where he appeared to be a devious creature put on earth to lead men into an early grave, be it by conscience or another's disgust-led reasoning to bash mentioned predator's head in.

Eames dropped his sight to the towel on the floor, wondering for a split second if the child had done this on purpose in order to either distract him or knee him in the nose the moment he'd bend over to pick up the cloth.  
The Brit didn't play safe often and was convinced that if the kid did try to pull some stunt on him, he'd get him in order in no time. So, he did pick up the towel, bold, sadistically pleased in how much the young lad stirred and audibly gasped at the close proximity.

After flinging the towel over his own left shoulder; the Englishman then proceeded to tell the boy to lift both of his arms over his head. Unlike earlier, this time the child did obey the second Eames' words had left his mouth and the latter began dressing the frail body.  
Eames tried his best to ignore the new bruises he could see on the boy's body now that he was close to him, pulling and tugging fabric over his sensitive skin. There were pale red dots on the inside of the child's biceps, a clear print of fingers having been wrapped around the limb. His movements were stiffer than those of an old man having survived several natural deaths, his demeanor more meek than that of the various beaten stray dogs Eames had come across on his path through the more gruesome parts of the city.

The moment he pulled the knitted sweater over his head, Eames could tell the boy felt a dozen times less threatened for the fabric touched his thighs above the knees; covering any nudity with grand ease. Nonetheless it was still a surprise when the nameless teenager allowed Eames to squat down to lift one of his deer-like legs with a hand cupping the back of his calf; guiding it into a trousers' leg. Greater astonishment followed when the scrawny specimen leaned a hand heavily on one of Eames' shoulders, balancing nearly all of his featherlight weight on the man so he wouldn't trip over his own two feet.

A jolt rushed through the Brit's stomach.

Once the child was dressed in sweater, thick trousers and even thicker socks; Eames exited the bathroom.  
To his greatest pleasure, the boy followed him out with timid steps and hunched shoulders. Either he learned quick or he was saving some energy to be a royal pain in the arse later.

But a dull thud behind him caused Eames to glance back over his shoulder, watching how the young man had plastered his back against the wall behind him, hand clumsily scrambling around to the door-post of the bathroom.

“No.” Eames firmly commanded, seeing that he was trying to back away into the other room once more though his gaze did not leave the pinpoint behind the Brit. He did freeze.  
The Colonel didn't need to look back over his shoulder to see what it was that had apparently woken the child from his weakened slumber -quite violently so-.

“I told you before.” The man assured softly, taking a step to the left in the hopes of blocking the other's view on the bed behind Eames. He could hardly imagine what was going through the rascal's brain at that very moment, though was pretty sure it'd to be rather heinous visions. It wasn't unlikely that the child had already fallen into the hands of a rapist by now. He was so young, so beautiful and so physically weak it was a surprise he hadn't a neon-light flashing over his head with an arrow pointing down at him, flickering ' _Weak, depraved victim. No consequences attached._ '  
Sadly those were the happenings in this day. The war was too greedy over money to so much as care about the 'little' things going on behind the bigger picture. Abuse, rape and even murder didn't seem as important as ego-tripping and making a name did.

Eames scowled at that thought. Noticing too late he was talking smack over his own people, army and position.

“You're too young.” Eames repeated his earlier message just to make sure to remind the boy that he wasn't out to debauch his body.

“You'll be sleeping somewhere else. First we need to get some food in ye.” Eames assured, turning on his heel and making way towards the bedroom-slash-office door.

“Follow me.”

* * *

 

  
  


Food was scarce. Nutrients as good as a fairytale if you did not have the money to spend on over-priced fruits and vegetables. And even then it was a proper task to find actual fresh pieces.  
Nevertheless, Eames, as one of England's most infamous men, found little to no trouble getting his hands on quality foods. That being said, even the colonel did not always manage to have his errand-boys fetch proper things to eat.

His excuse was that the boy was ill.  
Eames watched the child dig into a plate of the freshest vegetables he'd been capable of getting his hands on. He very much appeared similar to a hungry wolf, his table-manners absolutely atrocious and if it weren't for Eames trying to get a glance at the child's teeth to see if they were healthy, he'd actually be bothered by the open-mouth chewing going on across of him at the table.

As the teenager stuffed his face with as much greens his fork could carry, his dark eyes were focused solely on the small bowl of fruit next to his plate. Eames was almost a hundred percent certain that the kid preferred dessert over dinner and then this led him to believe that he undoubtedly had an aching sweet-tooth.

His mouth twitched in an amused, secret smile.

“Good, yea?” Eames asked, tilting his head sideways as he leaned a bit more heavy on his elbows planted on the table-top. The teenager didn't look up, didn't make a sound or so much as nodded. Sure, it aggravated him, but Eames was too pleased to see the child had an appetite even when looking like death washed over.

The boy finished both dinner and dessert in such little time that it could only mean he'd been frightened to have his food taken away from him. Eames commanded him to drink another two glasses of water and then a shot of cough-syrup before he returned to his own bedroom with him.

“You'll sleep either under the bed or at the foot-end of it.” Eames stated, waving a hand towards the large oval-shaped, flat pillow on the floor at the bed's paws.

“You can take the pillow under the bed if that makes you feel more at ease. Nonetheless, you'll be awake and on your feet the moment I command you to.”

The child stood in silence and a near stillness were it not for the swaying of his body on weak feet and knobby knees.

“Go ahead. I haven't got all day.” Eames grumpily added, waving a hand towards the pillow. He wasn't sure if the teenager knew the clock was yet to tick four in the afternoon, after all there were no windows in an underground liar. Thankfully so.  
Nevertheless, he seemed eager to catch some more sleep and perhaps the cough-syrup had a hand in that.

The scrawny boy paced towards the pillow, his hands gripping the edges of his too-long sleeves before he dropped to his knees on the soft cushion. Eames watched, fascinated, at how the boy's awkwardly-long limbs found no difficulty folding and bending in order to shape him into a little ball, nose buried between his knees, shins embraced by his arms. The fetal position only highlighted his vulnerability.

There was a thought that flashed through his head, a question about what this kid could be doing outside of his presence being alone. Should he not tie him up? Should he not check twice if he'd not left one of his knives laying around in the room? Should Eames not at the least dispose of his shaving kit in the adjoined bathroom? And then, even if the boy would not plot to slaughter Eames the moment he stepped back inside his own room, would he perhaps prefer slicing his own wrists?

The Brit frowned for a second, listening to the rasp in the boy's lungs as his breathing already lowered its pace for future sleep. This child's list of crimes had been impressive to say the least. He was sly but also quite impulsive. Both of these aspects made for one characteristic the colonel himself was all too familiar with.

Pride.

This boy would would fight to the death before he'd so much as consider taking his own life. And well, if he wanted a fight with Eames, the man wouldn't complain. He didn't mind a rumble, so to say, and was convinced that the scrawny little boy would never be a match for a grown man who'd experienced more battles, more death and more grief than any human being not having fought for dear life decades to no end would've had.

The second pressuring thought creeping into his skull was ' _What in the world am I doing owning a human slave?_ '. However, with that question came the mental image and answer of Saito.  
The man grimaced.

Spending another few minutes observing the half-asleep child curled up at the foot-end of his bed, on the floor, Eames reminded himself not too gently he had yet to finish an immense amount of paperwork.  
So, he did leave, locking the door behind him. And he did leave to his other office (the one actually used for work).  
Nonetheless, Eames did not finish a single task that day. Instead he drank tangy Whiskey, smoked import fags, stared at the wall across of him and thought about the boy for hours and hours and hours...

* * *

 

  
  


By ten in the evening, Eames returned to his bedroom, painkillers and a glass of water for the boy in hand. His own head had seemingly decided to strangle itself and with pinched brow Eames closed the door behind him, locking it.  
He leaned his back against it, his head tilting sideways as he observed the child still asleep in the middle of the room.

Surprisingly enough the boy hadn't been up to anything within the twelve-or-so hours of the Brit's absence. He'd needed his sleep, clearly so.

Eames pushed off the door, pacing slowly towards the kid, the heels of his boots loud on the wooden floor. When having come to a stop next to the pillow, the man reveled minutely in the satisfaction he felt for towering over the little bundle of skin and bone. He wasn't unaware of his own hunger for control, power, manipulation, but it was at moments like these that Eames got reminded of his own more grim side. He enjoyed being the bigger presence, he loved being the intimidating man in the room. He perversely adored crowding people in.

With the toe of his boot, Eames nudged the slave between his ribs. Gentle, of course, but firm enough to shake him awake.  
Which he did, almost literally so.

The boy flung up, gasping, eyes wide as he scrambled back as quick as his sleepy brain could comprehend. His head thudded against the back of the bed, pausing him in his tracks. Eames, with hands folded on his back and his stance wide-spread, allowed the boy to come back to his senses before laying eyes on the other's lips.  
The wound had sprung open and a thick bead of blood colored the boy's lips red as he closed them.

Eames tsk'ed, frowning, following the movement of the young man's tongue which swiped over his lower-lip to first collect the crimson and secondly to prod at the split.

“You need to watch that lip of yours.” The colonel proposed. His voice was raspy with whiskey and tobacco and his mood low by both of those as well as by great lack of sleep and great amount of stress regarding the human being in his room.  
His veins buzzed with an agitation that got enlightened so much more easily by alcohol, not to mention the ache inside his head.

Though the boy still looked pale, tired and bruised; his eyes were bright as they rolled up to meet Eames' gray gaze.

He immediately recognized the challenge within them. The kid was in as bad of a mood as Eames and he should've known. He'd seen it from the start, the defiance within this child. He'd heard what he'd done in the past, fighting soldiers and stealing anything off anyone's body to survive. Eames had known damn well that the slave would be a hand-full, that he possessed an arrogance not unlike Eames', that he'd be eager to tempt and lure his master into a fight. He was a survivor by nature, an aspect not unknown to Eames and hence the similarity to his own pre-teen self had seduced him to him.

He huffed, jaws clenching and nostrils flaring as he stared the boy down, or tried to. The young man was still plastered against the back-board of the bed, knees drawn up and his face flustered in either fear, frustration or pure, unadulterated rage. His little chest heaved with his labored breaths and every now and then he stifled a cough, swallowing down any sign of weakness even though it could be seen from space that he was poorly.

“Eyes down.” Eames tried with a feigned patience on his tongue.

As expected, the child did not lower his blatant stare and instead just narrowed his eyes, grinding his teeth audibly.

“I do hope you are aware that I do not enjoy repeating myself, and rarely will before taking action.” Eames warned, a side of him loathing the rebellious pride within the boy. However, another part of his did love this agitation. Be it sadistic or masochistic, the Brit enjoyed overpowering others, especially when arrogance was in the picture.

The kid didn't react to the man's words initially, however, five seconds passed before the corner of his mouth twitched up as if biting back a smirk. His head tilted a tad to the side, as if he'd thought to rest his cheek on his bony shoulder, but he paused mid movement, leering at Eames from the different angle.

“Now!” Eames barked, satisfied with how the slave winced -jumped, even-. His sight bravely maintained on the colonel, though the lids had fluttered at the loud shout.

“Right...” He murmured after another two seconds, blood boiling at the blatant disobedience. It was clear that the child had yet to get to know Eames. No one who knew the Brit and had his wits with them would ever mock the man's authority. Especially not a foolish, little kid who had yet to see the world, no matter a rough past.

Though he felt his nerve-endings titillate with the force he was maintaining within, his hands did not tremble when they placed the glass and medicine on the dresser behind him. A glance over his shoulder showed that the adolescent was still shooting daggers at him, chin raised in pride and mock.

“To start off your punishment you will see yourself to that corner.” Eames began, pointing towards the other side of the room.

“Do not think I will not drag you there myself if I have to.” The colonel warned the boy who had yet to move. The hint of his smirk had fallen and his eyes, next to rage, showed confusion. Good. At least he wasn't completely daft.

“You're being scolded for not following my orders, simple as that. Stand in the corner and await my return.”

Were it the weakness of his health or basic common sense, the child did decide to follow Eames' desires. The colonel had to admit he was a tad surprised, had expected more of a fight from the teenager and almost, _almost_ , felt some form of disappointment when watching him get on his feet and walk to the appointed corner.

Eames retrieved the glass and pills before stepping slowly to the kid who's back was turned to him, head bowed as his forehead lazily rested against the dull-colored wall. He made sure to have the heels of his boots impact loud and crass with the wooden floorboards; the sound of it almost echoing in a chimed threat.

The boy's shoulders tensed visibly, a natural instinct telling him to guard his neck. He did have a pretty neck, Eames noted with a surprise not for the child's nape but more so his own affection for a place on the body he had never given thought before.  
It was the paleness, that's what he told himself. That white skin blemished with finger-shaped bruises was what had actually drawn the man's attention. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Take your medicines.” Eames commanded softly when stood behind him. He rounded his arms around the child without touching him, displaying the glass and pills for him to take. And again, he did.  
Eames could almost taste the storm brewing within the silence and calm of the moment. This would explode. The air between would spark and ignite before a week had passed. The colonel was convinced of this.

“On your knees.” He murmured when having retrieved the empty glass from the boy's bony fingers.

Truth be told; Eames hadn't many clues about how to raise an actual human slave. Granted he'd had a dog once, when a child, but could that be considered actual learning material? Sure enough the colonel had seen slaves before. After all, his and England's leader; Saito, was all too fond of corrupting young human beings in physical as well as emotional manners.  
So, yes, the Brit had seen before how servants had been scolded, punished, manipulated in almost barbaric manners. He'd heard the conversations around tables. He'd listened, with a tight chest and confused conscience, to the stories of men's playthings.

However, this all did not mean he was certain of how to handle this young being, flexible and weak enough to be molded by his own blood-soaked hands.

The man's body shuddered, his thoughts almost having distracted him from the teenager's movement. The boy bent through his knees carefully, hands on the wall, his long fingers caressing the bumpy wallpaper.

“Am I going to need to bind your hands behind your back?” Eames asked. He wasn't listening for an answer, but more to see how the child would react to the odd considerate request.  
Without hesitation, he folded his hands behind his back, staring at the wall, arse rested on the backs of his calves.

Eames inhaled, a sense of danger washing over him. A feeling of having been cornered, having had someone look right into his soul; every dirty and dark part of it.  
He shook it off, gripping the glass tighter as he looked down at the crown of the child's head.

“Stay.” Eames commanded one last time before turning on his heel and exiting the room in a hurried pace.

He wouldn't return any time soon. Not until the tightness wrapped around his ribcage would've subsided. Not until the man would trust himself to not act upon foolish impulses when in the boy's presence.

* * *

 

  
  


Eames managed to go through his day without thinking too much about the slave left alone in his bedroom, unrestrained and unwatched. Sure, the knowledge of it maintained in the back of his skull, teasing at the awareness of his consciousness, but nonetheless Eames disregarded it a position at the front of his thoughts and instead worked harder.

He finished more files and solved more cases than the past weeks combined within the first hours in his office and only stopped when a knock resounded on his door.

“Come in.”

The timidness of his knuckles on the wood as well as the shuffle of his feet assured that Eames did not even need to look up for a glance to see who had just entered his office. It was Jack. Even more unmistakable when his boyish voice resounded with a tremble of hesitation.

“Lord Saito would like to have a word over dinner and asked to meet him at Trafalgar Square at one PM sharp, Colonel.” The young soldier shared, rambling off the words which he'd obviously studied to an overkill not long ago.  
Eames' stomach knotted at the news, not looking forward much to be chatting with his boss about his new human slave. It would be about the mute without a doubt. Saito did not discuss war over lunch after all.

“What is the time?” The Brit asked without looking up from his papers. He doodled a stick-man in one corner as he waited for the young man's reply.

“A quarter to noon, sir.” A noose appeared around the drawn figure's neck and with a grunt Eames scribbled two X'es for its eyes.

“I'll be there.” The reply was spoken without intonation, knowing that there was never a choice when it came to the Japanese leader. He blacked out the doodle with his pen, the point of it ripping easily through the cheap paper.

“Would you desire any means of transportation, Colonel?” Jack asked after a beat. Eames looked up for a moment, their eyes meeting in an almost awkward fashion.

“No, Jack, I will walk.” The young lad nodded quickly, opening his mouth as if to speak but then ended up saluting him and quickly leaving the room.  
As he sat up to lean his body back and roll his shoulders, Eames thought of what mask to put up this time around Saito.

It was a strange thought. He'd respected the man not that long ago, and surely still did, but something had been shifting and gnawing inside of Eames these past months. It was too soon to put a finger on it, too soon to figure out which parts of him were going out of their way to turn a different corner to an opposite direction of the believes he'd been following mindlessly for years.  
It was apparent and had been since the start of slavery, that Saito had quite different views and opinions when it came to claiming human beings compared to Eames. Nonetheless, being the leader, Saito's word was truth and Eames had to make sure to mold himself to it.

For a second a variety of images flashed before his eyes. What would his future look like? Would the child be with him for a long time? Would he see his lanky limbs grow more wiry with age? Or would the boy end up being unsatisfactory, untamable, unbecoming? Would Eames grow bored of him, or would he deem the child a spawn of the devil himself and hence throw him out to fall into the hands of men much more cruel than the colonel was (when it came to women and children)?

The Brit enjoyed adventure but so much loathed having his feet stand upon unstable and uncertain ground. His next step could get him across the quicksand, but more likely could swallow him down into a black pit which had bottom nor surface. Continuation nor end.

-

  
  


Something about eating across of the narrow-eyed and long-faced man removed a great deal of taste from the food at hand. Eames listened to Saito's words but made sure to have a fork-full stuffed into his mouth before the older man could finish a question. The Brit needed time to think, needed to analyze the other's body-language and facial expressions and, for the love of god, needed to coo words the Jap wanted to hear.

He hadn't had to be this observant in the past. Their opinions regarding the war they led had always come from the same batch. They loathed the Americans and sacrificed men for the money. That was what war was about, nothing less, certainly nothing more. Human lives were as disposable as those of animals on a plate. Their only purposes that of sacrificing themselves for the more powerful, the more rich, the more hungry.

Today, though, was different.

“How is it?”

Eames paused mid-swallow at the question, his food nearly traveling back up at the abrupt halt. He gulped.

“I'm sorry?” The Brit asked for clarification, not able to follow the man's thought-process which jumped this way to all across there. It wasn't unfamiliar to him, for Eames knew he was guilty of this trait even more so than the Jap. However still, his mind was in the gutter at that moment and he had a hard time processing how to correctly swallow down his food, let alone listen to the other man's accented words.

“The slave. How is it like?”

Eames frowned minutely, minimally, at how the child had been referred to as if an inanimate object. If anything, the boy was all human flaw and conscious anger.

“I haven't had it for that long. It is still resting and healing from the damage done to it by our men.” Eames carefully picked his words, watching Saito over the rim of his cup as he sipped almost gingerly from the Earl Grey tea.

“You may always dispose of it. After all, it'd be a shame to spoil much medication and time on it. I'm still quite surprised you've chosen one which is so...” The man's gaze traveled to somewhere over the Brit's shoulder.  
“-so maladapted, still.”

“I do like a challenge, mister Saito. You of any people should know.” Eames boldly accused his boss, knowing that a careful and gentle tactic of humor and teasing could win over the Jap's appreciation and trust in him. Men didn't get this far and this close without manipulating the other, both sides as guilty as they were credent.

“One should be careful with outing such opinions. It could be mistaken as a weakness, as a sign of having grown soft to allow a servant to disrespect your authority.” Saito worded his advice with a smug smirk around his thin lips which didn't go by unnoticed by Eames. Not that that was considered surprising. The mock on his face as well as in his tone had been intentional, obvious enough to betray its secrecy as that of an intended attempt to upset the colonel.

Eames chuckled on the wrong side of his mouth.

The rest of their tête-à-tête continued without incident though Eames was assured he was currently being put on a test. Whether it be a test to see if Eames was capable of dehumanizing a child or simply a curiosity inside the slave and the colonel's lives, Saito was observant, patient and sly with words.

Eames hadn't felt his shoulders creep up this high in years.

* * *

 

 

Eames returned to his home well in the late night, having left the mute on his own for approximately ten hours.

He was tired, exhausted even, and in desperate need of a fag or two~wenty-four. Whilst lighting a cigarette, pacing with firm steps through the maze of hallways, destination being his bedroom, Eames imagined an endless stream of possibilities of what to behold when entering the place.

Though the child was small, weak and likely inexperienced when it came to close-combat, the Brit still retreated his beloved Heckler & Koch P2000; a most preferred weapon of choice. He hadn't survived this long with underestimating the most unlikely of hostile beings.

He wasn't upset any longer. Though Eames did rage quick and often, the attacks subsided almost as fast as they'd appear. That being said, he did not forget and vengeance was something he'd participated with often and in brutal fashion.  
Nonetheless, the child had done little to awaken a grudge though Eames had noticed how easy it was for the boy to provoke him simply with a lift of his eyebrow or a curl of his lip.  
Again, the better man within him, screamed at the top of his lungs to get out of this. There was still time to ditch the kid and get a new slave, a doormat. Not this specimen pushed into his arms for the sake of luring his patience away from his furious ways.

Eames weighted the gun in his hand, cigarette pinched between his teeth before he unlocked the door in front of him. A jolt of excitement led by curiosity bolted up his spine, spreading out through his stomach.

He flicked on the light once the door had been opened and a soft orange glow cascaded the spacious room.  
The Brit's eyes drew towards the teenager like a magnet, spotting him immediately.

As expected he was no longer in the corner, instead curled up into a tiny ball on his pillow, face buried between his fore-arms, knees up to his bent elbows.

The Brit tugged his weapon back between his back and the belt of his trousers and proceeded to close the door behind him. Keys and a pack of cigarettes with matches were thrown unceremoniously onto the dresser to Eames' right; next to the entryway.  
Apparently, for having lived on the streets for so long, the child was a very deep sleeper and didn't wake up at the loud jingle of metal having gotten collided with a polished wooden surface. Eames frowned at that. The child had a poor excuse of an awareness to his surroundings. The colonel himself had learned at an early age in the beginning stages of serving the army, that sleep was something you'd better manipulate to your hand. When stripped from consciousness you were at your most vulnerable; something you had to avoid at all times, tired or not.  
Perhaps the medication had something to do with it as well, or maybe the kid was really so daft to believe to be safe within these four walls, allowing himself to rest off his illnesses and stress.

The man clenched his jaws, going to turn to head towards his closet but his plans were interrupted abruptly by a keening sound. Rather than peeking over his shoulder, the Brit maintained with his back towards the boy, trying to figure out what the sound had meant to communicate.  
Pain? Likely. He'd been without painkillers for ten hours, a part of his punishment.

The sound did not repeat itself and only got followed by slow and heavy breaths. The boy was still asleep.  
It'd be shocking if he'd not have some nightmares at the least. Eames felt a sudden greed for the child's past, wanting to know where he'd come from, where his family was, how his life had been before the war. He would've been quite young, perhaps too young to remember all that much.

It wasn't until the man started to undo his button-up, shrugging it off his shoulders, that the child outed another noise. This time though it was far more than a simple sound. It had meaning, vowels, linguistic aspects and clear pronunciation. Matter of fact... Actual. Bloody. Words.  
He bit on the inside of his cheek, gnawing it thoughtfully at what he'd just heard.

Not only was the mute capable of speech, but his dialect was all too familiar to the older man.  
Eames peered over his shoulder at the child; fast asleep. The lids of his eyes trembled over the movement of them; shifting in the sockets restlessly.

“Well...” Eames murmured to himself, not sure how to feel about the new information he'd just received. He almost gingerly toed into the bathroom, closing the door behind him and discarding the butt of his cigarette in the toilet-bowl where it ceased its fire with a sizzle.

Five minutes under the shower-spray later and the man questioned himself if he'd known what was the cause of the child's muteness. He did not remember having seen or heard details of his condition and hence promised himself to have a look at the kid's file first thing tomorrow. A frontal-lobe injury was now officially out of the question. Selective muteness would be more likely but then Eames still leaned more towards the probability of the child having willingly optioned to appear mute to not only censor his surely-foul language but as well the New York dialect.

The boy was an American and that alone changed everything.

Eames snapped open his eyes, regretting the decision immediately as shampoo poured down his lashes, stinging every inch beneath his lids.

What if Saito found out? The man wasn't fond of the Americans, not even as slaves and would rather have them kicked into the ocean or drowned into a bathtub of acid. Perhaps that was exaggerating, however still... Why did a fear accompany Eames' pondering?

The colonel tried to block his mind from shoving assumptions into his conscience by the hands of showering almost furiously, drying off his body with aggression and tugging on clean clothes so hastily he nearly tripped over a trousers' leg.  
He re-entered the bedroom, steps firm and a cloud of steam following behind him, lingering more densely around his wet hair.

The Yank was still fast asleep. Astonishing how he was able to just lay there, passed out, without a worry. Eames would almost envy the talent if it weren't for the knowledge of the dangers this state of being could attract.

Now, with his nationality out in the open, Eames could tell himself it'd be easier to avoid any future bond with the child and not so difficult to discipline him with a firm -if not brash- hand. The adolescent was a Yank. It explained the arrogance, the temptation, the itch that had crept into Eames' fists as of late.

Eames rolled up his woolen sleeves as he walked towards the slave who's chest rose and fell slow and gentle. He went to lower himself on the backs of his heels once next to the navy-blue pillow on the which the petite figure was lain and for many moments Eames just took in every inch of him.

His face, when asleep -mouth slightly agape- was even more youthful than it had been when he'd stared at Eames with large, frightened eyes. Lines were soft, not a single corner to betray what surely must've been a harsh childhood. The only thing that aged him were the dark bags under his eyes, though they did nothing to smudge his beauty, not with those long lashes fluttering on his skin.  
Besides those mentioned lashes, the boy's high cheekbones, long fingers and apparent wrist-bones did nothing to minimize the femininity of his appearance. He was unmistakably a boy, but if one would put him in a dress and wig, there'd be no man able to tell his gender with conviction. Eames did a double take on the mental image which was too appealing to be considered harmless.

The boy's mouth, which had a peculiar shape to it; lines which one could only describe as that resembling of a Cupid's bow, were chapped and smudged red with dried blood. The crack, once again, had been stretched open and Eames didn't have to wonder for too long of how it had happened. The colonel watched, curious and intrigued at how the kid pressed his lips together as if to hold back the sound in the back of his throat; a moan of distress. The skin stretched more taut when his teeth dug into the inside of his lips, nipping.

The Yank was fragile. Like a twig under Eames' foot; he'd be able to step on it, breaking it with a crack, ending the little future it had had in the first place. A branch without tree described the child perfectly as he was an American with no roots to back him up, support him and nurture him. As far as Eames knew there was no family present of the boy, perhaps not even a single member was left alive. And then even if there were... they'd not be able to find him, let alone come rescue him. The slave was a lost cause, something Eames wondered if the child was yet aware of.

When the boy shook his head in his sleep, the black waves on his head got tousled even more, a strand falling over his forehead. Eames watched the hair for a minute, glossy after being treated with shampoo but still dry at its edges by poor diet. He remember how it had felt in his hand when he'd dragged the child into the bathroom; ridiculously soft for its unhealthy state. A glance at his own wrist showed the bruises of the kid's tiny nails having dug half-moon crescents into his skin.  
He stroked a finger over them, slow and observant.

“Don't.” The man almost jumped at the boy's voice, looking up quickly but seeing his eyes were still closed, forehead creased with a frown. He tilted his head as if this would make his ears focus on the kid's words.

“Please. I can't do this- just-” With every new word spoken in the American tongue Eames could feel his agitation grow larger and more stifling. He had a Yank in his room, in his home, his lairs, in his own bloody hands. He could strangle this child with one hand. He could watch the life dim from his eyes like he had seen with so many Americans before.

Eames exhaled slowly, wiping memories of his killings back off the table. It was something that stayed with you forever, no matter how often or how impersonal the fashion in which you'd rob people off their lives appeared to be. It stayed with you, like an inner demon, lurking for the perfect moment to lash out at your conscience.

There were too many skeletons in this man's closet for it to ever be capable of being shut and locked properly.

“I don't want this.” The child murmured again, his fingers twitching until he buried his nose between his hands. His movements ceased immediately, as if he'd gotten comforted by his own scent or the warmth and support of his palms against his face.

Eames, with a grudge, could not lie to himself of how endearing the child looked when asleep. A long time ago he had wanted children. But the war had started up and he'd changed from a boy who longed for a family to a man who longed for power, victory and the vengeance it took to get there.

After another minute of self-indulgent voyeurism; Eames rose to his feet, stretching his body and allowing the bones of his spine to pop and crack. He went to stand in front of the dresser, hands on the furniture to support his weight as he crossed his ankles and his shoulders hunched forwards like a predator preparing to leap out towards its next meal.

The mute acted his part, not saying another single word or making any other noise but breathing heavily. His lungs seemed to already be on the better hand thanks to medication and the warmth of the room, the gurgling rasp had now eased down to a more scratchy sound.  
It'd still take some time for the adolescent to recuperate fully. Not to mention, there was a possibility of internal damage, unseen to the naked eye, because of the beatings he'd taken so recently. Eames would murder the German if this child would end up dying.  
Sure he was a Yank, an enemy, but he was still a kid who had yet to chose his path in life. And seeing how the world of today lacked directions, let alone roads, it was easy to believe the boy would need quite some time to find his ways in the open fielded mayhem.

Again, Eames frowned at his own thoughts, agreeing that he was a walking contradiction.

The fact that the slave's blood was that of American heritage should make it more easy for Eames to work him to his hand. It'd be less difficult to scold him, less difficult to not see him as an innocent young being and more so the sprout of two grown people of the States who surely had had a part in the war against Eames' people. Or maybe not... Maybe his parents had been farmers, innocent to the core, their only desire to crop fields and take care of their cattle.

But then maybe it'd just complicate matters because the colonel was aware Saito would want in on Eames' and the slave's everyday life at some point. If the Jap found out the mute was a Yank... that could motivate him to either push Eames to be more cruel or to take the boy away from the Brit and destroy it himself.

This teenager had never been in Eames' life before, hadn't done him any wrong, not directly and his only sin was having been born in a particular part of this world; both of which he'd had no hand in deciding for.  
As much as the Brit was not fond of feeling empathy for strangers, feeling a weak soft spot for children and even women in his better days, he still did. He already was breaking his head over this kid and they hadn't even been together for over forty-eight hours yet.

His only hope was that this child would prove to be the biggest wanker in his life-time, ripping him apart from his self-control and compassion.

A glance behind him made the man smirk to himself, seeing the metal ornament of the Queen, back in the day she'd been vibrant and he'd yet to be conceived. In a day when the Kingdom had been the ruler of people, keeping them in hand, oiling the machine to have it run smooth, though not always in directions people desired.  
The figure was solid and heavy, near unbreakable if you didn't bring a blow-torch to the party.

Eames straightened up, his right hand sliding over the dresser's polished top and then palming the back of the ornament. He focused his sight back on the child across of him before casually pushing the metal figure off the furniture, having it collide with the floor beneath.  
The thud was loud and dull, causing the boy to wake up immediately, jolting even.

It didn't take long for him to catch up and with his back pressed against one of the bed's legs he brought up his knees, eyes gazing accusingly from Eames' face to the object on the floor and back. His eyes were dark, smoldering through thick black bangs, glaring.

“Slept well?” Eames asked, smiling slightly, The child just continued to glare, the muscles in the hinge of his jaw twitching at the grinding of his teeth.

“No? How come?” The colonel continued, his voice smooth as bloody sandpaper. He cooed at the boy, as if soothing a baby, hence the gesture was highly humiliating. He could tell the mute wasn't daft enough to not read between the lines, his body tensed at the man's tones. He was easy to anger, easy to bait and lure out of his cave of poorly-attempted self-control.

“Oh, I know...” He murmured as he paced towards the slave.

The shoulders of the Yank crept up higher, his body curling more into itself but his thighs flexed and Eames already knew the child would kick out at the slightest display of threat.

“You had a nightmare just now, didn't ya?”

He knew immediately what Eames was hinting at, if his shifty eyes and slack jaw were anything to go by. The colonel came to a halt in front of him, digging his hands in the pockets of his slacks, his toes pointing out as he stood spread-legged.

“Well?”

Their eyes met when the boy looked up at him, face once more guarded from its previous startled expression. The Brit glided his gaze over the other, taking in his curled up body with a feigned patience but genuine interest. He noticed that the child's right foot hovered over the pillow rather than rest on it and his hands were firmly planted besides him, every part of him ready to kick out.

Eames' teeth sunk into his lower-lip, his blood almost sizzling at the prospect of confrontation. He inhaled deeply, adoring the aliveness that fights brought with them.

“Return to you appointed spot.” The man commanded softly, pointing towards the corner in which he'd left the child when leaving earlier that day.

The boy's lips only paled as he pressed them shut more firmly, the blood on them once more having turned liquid by the movement. His eyes shifted from Eames' shins to his own bent knees and it'd take an idiot to not recognize the plotting in it. Otherwise, he did not move a muscle.  
Still, the kid was all but subtle.

It was either the huff or the laid-back body-language that came with it that made Eames lose his patience. Either way, within seconds and before he'd even processed it himself; the Brit had leaned down, reaching out to seize the kid by the saggy collar of his shirt.  
The boy, predictably tried to kick Eames in the shin; his instincts nearly as fast as Eames'... Nearly.

His yelp was sharp when Eames grabbed the ankle, pulling hard enough to have the boy's skull bump on the pillow underneath. He thrashed for a couple of seconds until realizing Eames no longer had a hand on him and was stood up, towering over him with observant eyes and a smirk tugging at his lips.

Eames watched the Yank for a moment longer as he lied on the pillow, limbs sprawled, chest heaving with his labored breaths, eyes wide and angry, firing daggers at high velocity.

“That was a very stupid thing to do.” The Brit murmured, tilting his head sideways, staring with intensity, hoping to make the child's skin crawl.

Whether it be out of fear or unadulterated mock of the colonel's dominance; the teenager remained on the floor. He didn't so much as lift his head, just continued to lie there as if it did not bother him to have a man stood over him. Eames' heart skipped a beat, his blood-pressure rising along with his anger.

“Up.” He motioned, curling his middle and index-finger in a come-hither motion.

Surprisingly the adolescent did just that, crawling up a bit stiffly, as always swaying when on his two feet; still weak and unhealthy.

“Eyes down.” Eames commanded with a voice lacking all the turmoil within his chest. He was getting close to angry, not yet furious, however not far from it either. The Yank lowered his sight after a few more seconds, as if to make a statement to tell the Brit he would only obey when he wanted to... Even if this be three seconds after the man's wishes. It was childish, but delicious.  
Eames licked his lips subconsciously.

“Corner.”

The amount of patience and the overall considerate nature in which Eames was handling his slave would no doubt outrage Saito would he catch word of it. Not only his leader, though. The colonel himself was wondering if he was doing this right, at all. He should be more strict, should've dragged him up by the hair and backed him up into the corner with a hand on his throat, squeezing the arrogance out of him until all that was left would be a fear in his large, hazel eyes. All men feared Eames.

However, the colonel kept making excuses to the child's defense. He was quite young, ill, starved. He hadn't had the rules of slavery explained to him as of yet. He hadn't, obviously, yet witnessed how serious Eames could be when it came to him having the last word. All this would come in the near future, certainly so, but the Brit did know he should've done it that way from the start.

It was hard though. Even with his nationality being American, even with his arrogance, his disrespect, his mock and amusement, his aloofness, his slouched body-language and every other pore of him that oozed an appearance betraying that the kid thought himself to be above Eames... Even then the colonel found it hard to just treat him like he did sassy soldiers. The amounts and severities in which he'd punished Jack in the past, could be considered as that of abuse. And though Jack might not be a child at age, he certainly was as daft as one. The young man was pure, still. The blood on his hands seemed incapable of clinging to skin, seep into conscience to madden him like wars and killings did to all other men.  
It was a dumbness that accompanied one's innocence and hopes, this idiocy that could only be intertwined with an irrational mind-set.

Perhaps this was what made the Yank differ from an immature being such as Jack.  
The child was intelligent, had to be. He'd survived years on his own, had stolen from authorities and forged his own bloody identification papers. 'T was only a stubborn pride that had caused him to get into so many fights in the past. Dangerously similar to Eames; the Yank enjoyed having the last word, being the dominant being, rebelling, standing out, standing ground, standing up for his believes.

The colonel noted with grim that half of those traits had been of the past for him. He'd changed as he'd aged; Saito having been a big influence on him as a guardian.  
He might not have known this child for more than just a few days, but one would recognize it all when so similar to themselves.

Eames watched the boy who'd returned to the corner, wondering if this curiosity would eventually be satisfied or if this teenager would continue to captivate the grown man who'd seen more exciting sights with his eyes closed in the past week than any ancient ancestor would've in decades, eyes wide open.

Foolishly enough, the Brit had expected the fight to be over. The mute's demeanor had calmed down a bunch, his scrawny body moving any way Eames told it to. And he did sit there, so beautifully, on his knees, facing the wall, palms resting upon his thighs. The child feigned this laid-back aura with incredible amount of ease, enough so to fool Eames had it not been for the stiff set of his shoulders. His back straightened in a similar fashion of distress when Eames shared with him the news about how his hands would be bound behind his back.

Everything went well, from Eames retrieving a rough-textured and bright-red piece of rope from one of the drawers in his dresser, to squatting down behind the child, all the way to when the first loop had been circled around the boy's slender wrist.

The colonel saw it coming from miles away, had plenty of time to react, had had enough days in the army to not be fooled by the good ol' 'skull smashing nose' tactic. He'd seen it in the line of the Yank's bony shoulders, had heard it in the quiet inhale as he'd taken a breath of braveness. By the time the kid threw back his head in the hopes of destroying Eames' face with the back of his skull; the Brit dodged the assault with embarrassing ease.

Unfortunately for the Yank; he'd put so much power within the move that when impact lacked, he tipped backwards and lost his balance. Eames leaned away, just to see the kid catch his own fall with sharp elbows impacting on the wooden floorboards. The thud was dull, sounded painful.  
However, even when amused by the boy's failure at combat, the last straw had been cast to break the camel's back and before the adolescent was able to scramble back on his feet -the very least; his knees- Eames was on him. With lightning speed he shoved the child down onto the floor, a hand on the back of his neck and the other pressing firmly between his shoulder-blades to keep his torso down. The Brit's legs took care of the kid's lower-body, making sure to keep every inch of him plastered against gravity; as if they'd wither and vanish when separated from one another.

The American hissed, sucking air between his teeth. Eames wasn't sure whether the sound had been caused by physical ache or an absolute, venomous rage. It was probably a combination of both. The embarrassment that went with having yourself flat on your tummy on the floor, hands now restrained by a larger clasp and the weight of a grown man forcing down on you, could only come with a presence of physical hurt.

He'd live though. Eames was assured the kid had been through a hundred of worser things. Still he put an overly enthusiastic amount of strength in the grip he had on the kid's wrists; both of which easily fit in one large hand of the Brit, before tying them together with the red rope.

“You're a stupid boy, aren't ya?” The colonel rhetorically asked the child, tugging at the knot he'd made, before sliding the hand from his nape up to the back of his head, shoving his face down onto the floor, cruel and hungry for a reaction. The kid did give it to him, a reaction that is, he snarled at the brutishness, turning his face so his cheek was rested upon the splintery wood rather than his nose, lips and forehead.

Eames met his eye, raising a brow at him as if to question whatever he'd be plotting to do. The grip he had on the Yank was a trembling firmness, his blood palpitating and nerves humming at the excitement that whirled around inside of him like a furious hurricane. His whole system was at attention with a fascination for the specimen pliant under his hands but so very much hostile with his eyes and silence.

The quiet in him was as defiant as it were receptive. A rather unique trait for a boy his age.

Eames licked his lips when the kid's gaze had ceased its focus on the Brit's features. The Yank's lack of fear and his longing desire to fight the dumbest of battles agitated the Brit up to a point it came close to tip over that hate-love edge.

The Brit himself, who'd been taught to face some happenings with plenty of pre-thought and a careful step, had never been able to shake that feeling when being confronted with the stupid ones who'd fight for only a name, without considering protecting themselves or so much as calculating the enemy. A sensation that came close to respect, or perhaps it was an understanding for he'd been one of them in the past, as a child.

You had to be in awe of those battling for the sake of their pride. It was a foolish fuse to be charged with. Nonetheless, Eames did admire the strong personalities that came with daft stubbornness, with that thick-headed determination to fight a battle even when knowing they'd never come out to win, or so much as live to tell.

Heaven knew there were times when you had to suck it up, retreat, grab everything you loved and bloody run for the hills. But evermore there were moments in your life you had to give in to your heart -even when your mind would scream to try and overpower its voice- were you to ever be able to live with it again. Even if a lost cause, the conscience's bond with the heart, at times, would be too tight to disconnect.

So, again, Eames found himself being intrigued by the little bugger now currently underneath him.

“Are you going to play nice from now on?” Eames asked the child. When no reply came; he leaned more heavily on him, one of his shins brought up to rest on the swell of the boy's arse. The boy groaned softly. The man's stomach contracted with an almost-giddiness at having drawn such a vulnerable sound from the Yank's mouth.

“It is in your best interest, little one, to answer me.”

He leaned more forwards, ignoring the little pop in the child's back as he came down to search his eyes. The Yank blinked at the close proximity, his breath stilling before at last he dared to leer from the corner of his eye at the colonel.

“What's it gonna be?”

Once more the boy's tongue darted out -a habit apparently connected to either nervousness or (ideally) fear- licking at the drying blood. Eames wondered what step to take if the kid would still chose to rebel after having been physically corrected. Would he have to slap it out of him? Would he have to threaten him, even _more_?! He really didn't want to get more aggressive with him, but then also he did look forward to intimidating the Yank with either his voice or his physique.

Even with the tough guard, the boy was a prey and Eames _the_ predator. It was in his instinct, in the deepest pits of his heart and largest rooms in his mind to crave this domination over others. He needed it, breathed it.

The Yank nodded out of the blue, surprising Eames who'd been distracted by his own thoughts.

“Yeah? Gonna play nice, then?”

The child once more nodded, though his eyes were pinched close and his lips sealed shut firmly. An idiot would recognize the lie in it.

“Brilliant.” Eames breathed, patting the boy on his head a bit too harshly before he got up, using the small body as leverage.

He made way to the dresser, leaning against it after having retreated a cigarette, lighter and ashtray in hand. Eames smoked slowly, making sure to even out his breaths and calm down the whirlwind in his stomach and chest. His sight though, never did leave the Yank who maintained on the floor, hands tied on his back.

Though the kid hadn't much a choice to be moving, what with the restraints around his wrists, it still satisfied the colonel to see him so subdued, so quiet and patient; awaiting Eames' orders. One always had a choice after all. The boy certainly craved to wriggle his hands, to roll over on his side so he could at least watch the enemy who stood so out of sight.  
Nonetheless he did no such thing. He fought his instincts either to obey the colonel out of a fear of the unknown or because he was simply exhausted.

The struggle had been no labor for Eames, but granted he was a grown and healthy man.

Eames stretched the silence as long as he himself could bear it. He wanted the brat to think about what he'd done, have him try to figure out how to handle and escape the situation only to come to the conclusion there was no way. He'd lost this fight and could do no more.  
It took another cigarette to be finished before the colonel could see the physical tell of the child's acceptance. His body flattened out even more, his cheek nuzzling the floor as if he was getting comfortable, his fingers limp and curled slightly; no longer folded into fists.

Eames swallowed.

“Get up.” He spoke softly, almost a whisper and watched the boy flinch before once more relaxing his muscles. He got up soon after, not wasting too much time, first on his knees and then onto his feet with surprising grace and strength. The boy reminded Eames of a cat. A small domestic one at that. Nevertheless one that suffered of megalomania.

“Turn around.”

When the Yank turned to face Eames but left his head hanging, eyes lowered and shoulders slouched; Eames' stomach flipped. The child was subdued for the time being, wide and open to receive command, patient and meek to the colonel's pace and plots.  
The tightness this caused in Eames' chest could be caused by as much of surprise, of love or of a conscience. It was still unknown to him what exactly the boy was doing to him, but he was stirring the man up. Which should be worrisome rather than exciting.

Eames smelled the challenge from miles away and he inhaled deeply, feeling a burn that could not be caused by post-nicotine presence.

“Look at me.”

The adolescent's eyes were a mellow brown, the darkness of them had dissipated with his anger. He was not afraid to keep his sight focused on Eames. Was this because it'd been an order? Or was this because he reveled in the imagery of being an equal this brought along with it?

Eames uncrossed his ankles, watching how the kid's shoulders squared at the movement, though he stayed on the spot just like the Brit did.

“You're going to be punished for all that you've done so far.” The colonel softly warned the boy about what was in store for him. Their gazes refused to break from the other.

“I will break you.” Eames assured with a slight and quick smile that did not meet his eyes by far. He blinked slowly, tipping his head to the side and leaning more comfortable against the dresser as he re-crossed his ankles.  
“Eyes down.”

The child blinked away, looking back down at his feet.

It would take a lot to break him. However, Eames wasn't even certain if this was what he truly wanted of the boy. He wanted more, a lot more, he didn't know what exactly, but he felt he craved all the boy would be capable of offering to him.

That in itself made the Brit cringe at what he'd become.  
The war had shaped him into this foul being. Time had shaped him so subtly he'd not noted days of identity-assassination having passed in the first place. Time had a choke-hold on everyone. It crept up on some, raced away with others.  
This young man in front of him was not different of other humans being shaped by the hour, the day and years. These past twenty-four hours already had impacted the child's mind. This was something he'd never forget for the rest of his life, be it short-lived or not.  
Even if the kid would be released in the future, it was too late by now to shape him back into the child he'd been only a few days ago.

So, Eames agreed to himself that it was too late now to back off. He'd already left an imprint on the Yank, which was soft and small and still capable of either turning into a warm patch of self-discovery or a heinous bruise to match the others on his body and in his heart.

He was in control of how to spend time from now on. His own and the boy's.

He had the power to guard the scrawny teenager from present and future terrors and by these hands allow him to grow up into a sane, strong man. Had he been left on the streets or had he fallen into the hands of the likes such as Saito; the boy would've grown to be a scarred mess. That is, if he'd even survive to age with years in the first place.

Eames had a power to knead him. Grant him a second chance at life and not allow the tide of the war-filled years passing them by, to smother either one of them.

Was that what he wanted, then? Was this something Eames desired more than to abuse this child into a pliant, spineless and soulless being? This young, though American, specimen deserved more out of life.  
And this thought alone told Eames more than he was ready to admit.

He, as much as the Yank, would need time to figure each other out. Not to mention; they'd need all the time available to figure out themselves within the current setting.  
They would change, already were, their lives now intertwined were destined to travel different paths than had been planned out before coincidence had brought them together at crossroads.

But god, was Eames confused. Unsure. Unsteady. For the first time in a decade he had doubt coursing within him.  
And it did scare him, sure, it frightened him even.

Nonetheless, the greater picture of it showed a bleeding, pulsating course.  
Eames felt alive for the first time since he himself had been an un-smudged child he could, at last, again, _breathe_.

 

 


	6. Part IV.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rewritten (June 2015)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: a rather detailed description of a starting panic attack in this chapter.

** Arthur. **

 

Arthur ended up being seated back in the corner, hands tied behind his back for the rest of the afternoon and evening in which Eames mostly was gone and occasionally returned to fetch something from his desk before once more disappearing.

At first Arthur felt a relief to note his punishment lacked any physical harm. Eames hadn't beaten him nor did he waste any time on shouting at him as a form of scolding him into submission. However, his sense of suspiciousness elbowed the calm right out of him, telling Arthur that the worst was yet to come.

Besides his paranoia, the dull pain of sore muscles and bruised tissue took great part in preventing Arthur from relaxing on the spot. His shoulders cramped every few minutes, making the boy hiss and shift, hunching his back to chase away the bite of the ache. His legs were numb and cold after hours of being bent and carrying the weight of his upper-body.  
It was at this point in time when Arthur started to ask himself if Eames had forgotten to give him those god-sent painkillers or perhaps was keeping them from him as a form of punishment, which would push Arthur's earlier gratefulness for lack of physical punishment right off the table.

With a soft groan he shifted, pulling his legs from underneath him and instead crossing them at the ankles in an Indian position. The room was too quiet, not even a clock within it to tick away time and have Arthur count along with it. His thoughts, as always, were loud and persistent, poisoning his nerves, motivating his rebelliousness.  
Though the boy could remove himself out of the corner like he'd done last night after Eames had left him, he felt too tired to face any other shape of punishment. Better to sit this one out until he got some medication, some food and then Arthur could start over this battle with the Brit. Most certainly he could not win, but at least his pride would be left sane.

The boy had great amounts of self-respect and he'd be damned if a fucking Brit would break him down only to build him back up into a perfect, little, obedient slave. Not a chance.  
Arthur was a proud boy, very much assured of his own strong-willed personality and even the tight knot of nervousness in his tummy could not tell him otherwise. It was only natural to anticipate the man's return, he allowed himself that little tremor of fear. But he knew, even more so, that he'd die before ever being tamed fully.  
Such as the Brits had taken everything from him; his family, his security and now his freedom, Arthur would hold onto his own being until his last breath would be drawn. He couldn't back down, ever. For the sake of his motherland and his parents, Arthur refused to ever lay down for Eames or any other man that might come to cross his path in the future.

With a strained exhale Arthur leaned forwards to rest his head against the wall, the paper cool against his skin. The boy willed his thoughts away for the sake of trying to meditate his pain into a less vicious eagerness to ache every inch of him. It took him various minutes before he noted that his quick breaths weren't so much because of his physical discomfort but more so a mental turmoil spiraling into a beginning panic attack.  
It didn't surprise him. Though the last time he'd experienced a flare of anxiety, grand enough to stutter his heart and numb his face, had been many months ago, it wasn't abnormal to be overwhelmed by it now in this quiet room. Arthur's own thoughts had always been his best friend and worst enemy, managing to support him through harsh times and then kick him down in a heap of heaving breaths a minute later.

With panic crawling up the walls of his awareness, Arthur took a shuddering breath, trying to force himself to calm down. He straightened his back, closing his eyes, focusing on how his stomach expanded with every deep inhale.

He had difficulty admitting to himself how hard it was for him to grasp the fear he felt towards Eames.  
Though the boy had experienced many horrendous moments in his young life, he'd never quite met someone like the Brit. Arthur was not someone easily intimidated by the threat of physical assaults. He'd been beaten to a bloody pulp more than once and though he'd managed to have escaped multiple incidents in which the goal had been to have him raped, he still had gone through too much sadism to ever have a peaceful mind or to ever consider himself 'lucky'. Still, evermore, a beating and death were often the worst outcomes and Arthur rarely got intimidated by these possible destinations.

This being said, Eames freaked him the hell out. The Brit was all mixed messages and sly traps and the boy didn't dare imagine what he actually was capable off.  
Eames was a fire, ready to ignite at the smallest spark and burn Arthur whole. It was this explosiveness and this inability to predict that truly did frighten Arthur to a greater degree than he was comfortable admitting to himself. The child had experienced little fear ever since his mother had been murdered on that night in which he'd aged ten years within an hour. A click in his mind had told him it was time to fight and survive and no longer did he have room for petty emotions such as anxiety or sadness. Nevertheless, there was no denying that Eames made his skin crawl, got his heart to skip beats and the hairs on the back of his neck to rise like hackles.  
He despised how young the man caused him to feel. Sure, he was only twelve, but he'd spent years on the streets telling himself otherwise. It was beyond obnoxious to feel this dominated by a stranger. A stranger who, unfortunately enough, seemed keen and capable of snapping his neck.

Nonetheless, Arthur had figured out already of how to keep this man calm, of how to ease his mind and soothe his aggression. It didn't take a genius to figure out Eames wanted a fucking rag-doll, perhaps a dog which never talked back at him. But the kid's damn pride could hardly allow it. It took all of his will-power to keep himself calm and not risk the man's violent tendencies.  
He had to though. Arthur was aware of this. He knew he had to shove aside his pride and just dip his chin to his chest and obey what the man demanded of him. After all, Arthur had yanked the Brit's chain plenty of times in the few days they'd been together.  
He had to. Just for now. Just until his anxiety levels had reduced, just until he'd gotten painkillers and food and some more rest. Just until his body didn't feel like it was breaking down with every breath he took.

Arthur, with a huff, shifted around on the floor, turning in order to have his back lean against the wall, nestled into the corner of the room. He stared at the door for a second before closing his eyes once more, tipping his head back against the wall and taking deep, slow breaths. His arms ached with having been tied behind his back and for a split second Arthur desired for Eames to come back and just get him out of these restraints, even if it meant he'd be slapped into unconsciousness.  
The boy had always loathed being ignored, being disregarded or not being taken seriously. He hated being underestimated and more so despised when people threw him away as if he was worth nothing at all. Even with the enemy, oddly enough, Arthur preferred negative attention over being cast aside.

Hence, after hours of being treated like a petulant child, Arthur started to desire a bit of a fight. A little one...

After Arthur exhaled another breath loudly, he opened his eyes and straight after jolted on the spot.

Eames stood in the doorway, arms crossed as he leaned with his right shoulder against the frame. His eyes were dark, as was the expression on his face and Arthur held his breath immediately, watching him with his head still tipped back against the wall behind him.  
The paisley of his button-up clashed with the gray of his trousers. However, the brown leather of his Oxfords matched the thin belt, colored similarly. For the first time Arthur noted how the thick muscle of the man's built resembled more of that of a feline than it actually did a solid tank. There was a delicateness edging down metaphorical corners, softening a possible blocky figure, however doing nothing to hide the strength tensed under skin. Such as his sense of fashion, he made no fucking sense.

Arthur ceased the path his eyes had been traveling over the man's appearance once they'd paused on the Brit's full lips. He blinked away quickly, dipping his chin and noting how it wasn't until he'd done just so, that Eames pushed off the door-post. As if he'd been waiting for the boy to go from ogling to submitting by the means of averting his eyes and lowering his head.

“You're in pain.” He spoke. It wasn't a question and Arthur was aware that he must be looking pale and miserable enough to be communicating the poor state of his physical well-being by the simple means of looks alone. Eames walked towards him and Arthur kept his eyes on his shoes; creaking softly as they came closer.  
Once in front of him, Eames squatted and with elbows leaning on his knees continued to speak. Arthur watched his large hands dangle, one of which was holding a strip of medication.

“Again, you did well. It's a pity you always have to put up a fight when it is apparent you are capable of behaving yourself and being obedient.” Eames shared softly and Arthur took another deep breath, grateful he'd calmed down enough by now to not have this man shove him back over the edge to topple into a session of proper hyperventilation.

“Good boy.” The Brit murmured, reaching out his free hand and resting it on Arthur's shoulder. The boy couldn't stop himself from wincing, his whole body tensing on the spot.  
A silence followed suite, awkwardness weighing down the energy between them. Minutely Arthur wished he could give up on his mute-act, just so he could tell Eames to get his hand off of him. His palm was hot and heavy, burning through the fabric of Arthur's blouse and reaching his sensitive skin with ease. It stung. It caused the child to grow nauseas.

Unlike with the loose embrace he'd gotten after the punishment of a cold shower, Arthur wasn't exhausted enough to find an inch of comfort in the physical touch that tried to portray a reassuring kindness. It wasn't genuine and Arthur knew without a doubt that Eames was grooming him into the picture perfect Stockholm Syndrome boy. So, even though he didn't shake off the man's hand, neither did the kid relax into the touch.

“Turn around.” The Brit spoke with a bland tone, his hand gone from the boy's shoulder, leaving his skin cold and tight.

When Arthur obeyed, shuffling around awkwardly, Eames undid the ropes around his wrists before motioning him to get up.  
He guided him into the bathroom, not quite touching him though still using his broad posture to crowd him towards and through the doorway. Once in the small room, Eames placed two pills on the sink, tapping his finger next to them to get Arthur's sight on them.

“Take the medication, have a quick shower and get to bed.”

For a split second Arthur's heart skipped a beat at the word 'bed', still expecting for Eames to harass him at some point, no matter his earlier assuring of Arthur being too young. Maybe he believed those words, Eames that is. Nonetheless, Arthur wasn't one to believe men on their words than he was their actions.

“You'll be fed tomorrow.” Eames added, turning around to walk out of the bathroom, but pausing with a hand on the door-handle. Arthur peeked up carefully when Eames glanced over his shoulder at him.

“Goodnight.” He said, letting Arthur know that he was leaving for now.

Sure enough the man was gone for the rest of the night. Arthur slept deep and dreamlessly, not at all doubting that medication had had a great part at this. He was not bothered by this knowledge, not one bit.

* * *

 

  


Alright, so.

Arthur may or may not have carved obscene imageries in the bathroom cabinet with one of Eames' razors which were sharp enough to damage porcelain, let alone unpolished oak. In his defense however, Arthur had been bored out of his mind. Eames hadn't returned since he'd left last evening. Arthur had taken the medication, showered and went to bed and then he'd woken up at -what he believed to be- a decent and early hour the next day.  
Hours and hours had passed and if his headache and growling stomach were anything to go by, Arthur had been awake for at least fourteen more hours.

He'd grown agitated early on. His muscles ached and the redness around his wrists of where the ropes had bitten into skin, itched annoyingly. His throat hurt as well and going by his grogginess Arthur may have drank a bit too much of the cough-syrup he'd found after snooping around in the bathroom cabinet.  
And then this hunger. Fuck, was Arthur hungry. Whereas on the streets he'd been able to press away this primary necessity in order to tackle more critical matters, here, within these four walls with nothing to distract him from the memory of the lovely food he'd eaten not that long ago, it was maddening to suffer his spasming stomach.

Arthur got more disorientated with every passing hour. With no way to tell time, no food to be found, no escape to be practiced and no human being to interact with -even if to fight with-, the child soon enough felt like crawling up the walls.

By the time his biological clock convinced Arthur it was night-time again, the boy was lain miserably on his pillow, clutching at his stomach and hissing at the cold shivers that waved through his over-heated body. He was ill and hungry and though he didn't at all desire for Eames to come budging in and grant him with a face-full of arrogant British-ness, Arthur still craved some medication and nutrition.  
He'd tried the door, shaking the handle only to end up with the disappointment of having noted it being locked securely. Arthur had even snooped through Eames' desk only to find out that three drawers were locked and in the remaining two there was no food to be found. The boy was stuck, to put it lightly and had no choice but to wait for Eames' return.

It was a sickening realization that the only thing Arthur was to be looking forward to was the homecoming of his capturer, his abuser, and simultaneous caretaker.

* * *

 

 

Arthur woke with a gasp on his tongue and a hand in his hair.

“Up!” Eames barked and though the boy had woken barely two seconds ago, he was wide awake and reacted accordingly. Swallowing down a curse that had been keen to tattle on the falseness of his mute status, the boy reached up to wrap all of his ten fingers around Eames' forearm. The bare skin was hot and Arthur could feel the hairs on it as he dug his nails as deep as they could go.

Predictably enough, Eames didn't so much as hiss at the pressure and instead dragged the boy towards the bathroom. His grip was firm and his hand raised high enough to prevent the child from reaching the floor with his feet, instead forcing him to hold onto the man's arm for dear life. He dangled from the man's arm, the strength of him taking Arthur's breath away.

In unceremonious fashion, Eames kicked the door open, pulling Arthur into the bathroom after he'd palmed the wall to turn on the single light dangling from the ceiling. He let Arthur go abruptly with a swing of his arm and the boy fell down onto the floor. He could've prevented himself from falling, but his instincts wanted for him to crawl into a little ball into the corner of the bathroom and just wish the man away.

Arthur took a few deep breaths as he crawled over the floor, eager to place his back against the wall so he could keep an eye on Eames at all times. When his shoulder-blades collided a bit harshly against the toilet-bowl behind him, the child hissed, nonetheless kept his sight set on the Brit who stood with legs spread, towering over him.

“Do you have any idea how expensive that is?” The man asked with hands on hips and his head tilted a bit to the side. He wasn't so much scowling as he was down-right glaring. It took the young boy a total of two seconds to catch up and he glanced almost guiltily at the cabinet to his right, mutilated by carvings of phallus-shaped suggestions, middle-fingers and the nastiest words he'd been able to come up with in his delirious-on-cough-syrup state about two days ago.  
Arthur would've laughed had he not been this wary, if not scared.

When the boy only blinked up at Eames rather than give any indication of understanding or so little as a reply, the latter reached down at his own ankle, retrieving something from his boot. The blade of the knife he pulled out glistened in the bathroom light and Arthur held his breath when the man walked closer. For a split second, as he pulled up his hand which was fisting the knife, Arthur expected of him to aim towards his skull. His genuine belief was that he was about to get stabbed in the bloody face, but instead Eames lowered the weapon quick and hard, leaving it vertically in the cabinet's surface.

The child watched the blade quiver for a few more seconds before it stilled, leaving the room in silence.

“Apologize.” Was Eames' simple command. The boy leered at the man from his peripheral vision, noting that he was pointing at the knife he'd left in the wood.

Though Arthur understood what he was getting at, there still were a few lingering moments in which he considered disobeying. Like hell he'd apologize for having carved a few dicks in his furniture. It had been his own fault, leaving him on his own for so long without anything to do. Or, there was also the fact that he'd captured him and stolen him away from freedom in order to use and abuse him as his personal slave.  
Yes, there was always that.  
Hence, carving obscenities in antique could hardly be considered shocking or an equally disrespectful thing to do considering what had been done to Arthur.

Still, in pain and great hunger, Arthur scooted himself over the tiles so he was seated on the floor inbetween the toilet and the cabinet. He reached up to retrieve the knife and it took him a handful of tugs before he was able to remove it from the wood in the awkward angle.

Eames watched him closely from where he was leaning against the sink with a hip, arms crossed. Arthur could feel his eyes burn through him.

The knife was heavier than it had looked like and when Arthur carved the first cut he as well noticed how it was far sharper than he'd expected it to be. He held the handle with both hands, trying to still the trembling of his fingers with a white-knuckled hold.

“Write 'I am sorry, Sir.' Capitalize the 'Sir', there's a lad.” Eames lightly commanded and Arthur felt his stomach drop at the humiliation. He would've been salivating with anger had he had enough saliva to produce.

Nevertheless, the child did what he was told and merely five minutes later he laid down the knife on top of the cabinet, scooting a bit more back to lean against the porcelain bowl behind him and grant room for Eames to inspect his handiwork.

The Brit walked closer, reinserting the blade back in the hidden pouch of his boot and making sure to angle his leg out of Arthur's immediate reach.

“Come.” He spoke after a few seconds of inspection in which he stroked fingers over Arthur's carved apology, as if savoring the physical proof of submission.

The boy, knowing he had no choice, followed the man out of the bathroom with a light head but a heavy stomach. His nerves buzzed as he watched Eames open the bedroom door, exiting the room but turning around to wave Arthur out.  
The child paused for a second, eyes glancing up to meet Eames'. The man's face was absolutely expressionless and again Arthur was baffled at how sudden his anger would flare and settle. He'd been carrying him by his hair not fifteen minutes ago and then had acted as if all was well the moment Arthur had completed his 'punishment'.  
Is this how it would be from now on? Was the child to just watch his own actions? To just obey and have no personality and live a life of eat, sleep, repeat? It made no sense that he had yet to perform any task, be it related to housework or intimacy. What did this man want from him?

Deciding upon not reawakening the man's rage, Arthur blinked away and followed the Brit out.

As they walked through the narrow hallways of Eames' 'home' Arthur tried hard to pin-point what exactly it was that he was so fearful of. Sure enough the boy didn't quite desire to die any time soon. No matter how miserable his future may appear, there was always a grain of hope left. After all, he wasn't a victim but a survivor, or -such as his father used to say- a life's adventurer.  
Perhaps it was because he was stuck here and he knew that he would not get out unless Eames decided to let him go. In the past Arthur had always had some control over possible outcomes, be it in the shape of cunning escape or vicious fighting.  
Where Arthur had been feeling hopeless the first night spent in Eames' bathtub, he now once more was positive he could get out of this some way. He just needed to be patient and observant and for the love of God try to survive long enough to find out how to manipulate this man into releasing him.

There had to be a way. Everything and anyone had a price.

Arthur watched the back of Eames' head, the thickness of his neck and width of his shoulders, peering as if the answer somehow would be visible in the set of his body or the state in his skull.

When the Brit opened a door at the end of one of the hallways, Arthur's pace slowed down. However, as Eames stepped aside, waving him in, the boy did exactly so and ignored the severity in which his heart hammered within his chest.

Eames flicked on the light and closed the door behind Arthur once the latter had entered the room. With the sensation and knowledge of Eames standing behind him and drilling holes in the back of his head Arthur still decided to observe the room first and acknowledge the man's dooming presence second.

It was the dining room they'd been in when Arthur had gotten his first meal. Relatively small, yet more spacious than was common nowadays. It held a fireplace -which lacked actual fire- on the farthest left wall, the center of the room greatly taken by a sturdy, wooden table with a chair at each length.  
Arthur smelled the food before he saw it; displayed in the middle of the long table and his mouth water instantly.

“You must be hungry.” Eames spoke casually, causing Arthur to startle as he'd momentarily forgotten all about the Englishman's presence behind him.

“I certainly hope you do not believe your punishment over the damaging of my antiques has been fulfilled by a simple written apology?” The man asked and allowed a pause to linger, as if truly awaiting a reply. Arthur pressed his lips together, keeping his posture stiff and muscles tensed.

“Luckily enough I do consider your health to be of importance and hence will no longer leave you without nutrition... Unless, of course, you do something daft and have it all go tits up.”

Arthur _heard_ the smile in his voice and this alone caused him to snarl.

“Unluckily enough, I am rather innovative when it comes to combining punishment with basic human needs.” Eames shared after a second before he brushed past the boy who on his turn cringed at the proximity.

The Brit went to lean against the table, perched on its edge as he crossed his arms of which muscles flexed underneath tanned skin. With eyes focused on the man's legs, making sure to not accidentally participate in eye-contact, Arthur waited for Eames to continue. There was a promise in the air, something heavy and sneering.

“Undress.” The command was simple enough, spoken calm and as articulate as one word could be pronounced like. Nonetheless Arthur's brain halted, its only command to have the boy gape as he traveled up his line of sight to meet Eames' stare.

The Brit, on his turn, scowled.

“Eyes down and undress. I'm not going to tell you again, alright?” Eames looked away for a split second as if trying to recollect some of his patience before his gray eyes set camp onto the child's light frame.

Arthur gulped, the saliva in his mouth had dissolved just as fast as it had appeared. However, there wasn't a way out of this and there wasn't a chance that the Brit was joking. Were he to not desire Eames' wrath, which had been introduced to the boy one too many times, it'd be best for him to do as he was told. Eames had dragged him by the hair once today, and the kid was convinced it wouldn't take much to have it happen twice..

Arthur exhaled, as if this would somehow ground him far away from anxiety, before hooking his fingers underneath the rim of his knitted sweater. Though he was no longer looking at Eames, it was obvious he was watching closely when he dragged the clothing over his scrawny torso and eventually over his head. Arthur held on to the piece though, remember the frown Eames had carried on his features when Arthur had previously thrown clothes on the floor, in the bathroom.  
The small amount of dust that floated off the fabric of the sweater prickled Arthur's throat and he coughed in the crook of his elbow, twice. His lungs still ached, as did his throat, but he noticed how much better his health already was, no matter he'd been without medication for over forty-eight hours.

“Bring it to me.” Eames' voice was soft, almost kind if Arthur wouldn't know better. Mindlessly the child took a few steps forwards, dropping the clothing in the man's outreached palm before stepping back to his previous spot.  
The older man started to fold the sweater, eyes gazing at Arthur though his head was slightly tipped downwards, making his eyes seem to be glaring, his brows curved almost elegantly yet mischievously.

Ignoring the manner in which his skin burst out into goosebumps, Arthur undid the fly of his pants, grimacing at the realization of him not wearing any underwear. It wasn't that surprising, Eames hadn't offered it to him, yet he could've still stolen some of his where he knew he kept them in the bottom drawer of the dresser next to the bedroom door.  
The boy tried to breathe as normally as his stressed body would allow him to whilst he pushed the fabric down over his sharp hipbones, to his thighs and all the way down to his ankles.

When he straightened up, Arthur noted the Colonel already had a hand reached out towards him and without further hesitation he stepped forwards to drop the pair of pants on his palm.

“Good lad.” Eames smiled quick and short, doing a once-over Arthur's completely naked being. There wasn't a lust on his features, not that the boy could tell, and God knew how he'd looked for it in the past couple of days. The American wouldn't go as far as to exclaim that Eames was left completely unaffected by the his nudity, but he was a long way from seeming like a sexual threat to him.

Arthur was grateful for this, for death was more kind than rape, however he'd remain suspicious till the end of days. Never judge a book by its cover, after all.

  


“Let's have dinner.” The Brit smirked slightly, a teasing touch to the curl of his lips rather than a cruel one, as he lowered his gaze before pushing himself off the table.  
Arthur's hands folded into fists, still ever ready to lash out were he to come too close. Nevertheless, the man just went to place the nearly folded clothes on one of the two chairs at the table.

“Come.”

Arthur cringed mentally at the casualness to Eames' tone as he turned back to face him. Though he didn't so much as glance down his body, Arthur still cupped himself awkwardly and when their eyes met he reminded himself of the number one rule. The boy blinked away, favoring to stare at his naked toes on the floorboards.

The Brit stood still, telling Arthur, wordlessly, to follow the order he'd given. The child, after another deep breath, walked carefully forwards, hyper-aware of how he was pacing closer and closer towards his enemy. When he was able to reach the chair at the table's left, the one of which the seat did not carry Arthur's folded clothes, he exhaled to calm his nerves and confirm to himself Eames had not pounced him when he'd rounded him.  
It was when Arthur maneuvered to sit down that the atmosphere got stirred back to shit for Eames tutted him, condescendinly.

“No. That's my seat.” His tone could only be described as chirpy, or fucking annoying, whichever you preferred.

“Yours is down there.” He added, pointing to direct Arthur's line of sight. The boy's stomach sunk when he spotted it, there underneath the table and rather close to the left chair; a plate of appetizing-looking food, on the floor, no utensils anywhere near.  
The child would've choked on his breath if he'd found any.

“Now, normally I'd allow you to be seated on a pillow, and to be clothed, were this to take place outside of punishment. Which, incidentally will be the case in the future. Your first meal at the table earlier this week was a newcomer treat.” Eames explained calmly, almost blandly.  
“Don't expect to be eating or to be seated on my level anytime in the near or distant future.” Their eyes met for a split second.  
“After all, we need to remember who's master and who's slave here, yea?”

There was a shift in Eames' eyes or perhaps a shadow that fell over his face that caused Arthur to suspect a lie to have lingered some place in the sentences the Brit had just worded. He wasn't sure what it had been, as it'd passed too quickly to analyze, but something was a tad off. As if Eames had not believed some words he'd spoken. Or perhaps not agreed.

It was a foolish and hopeful thought, surely so, and hence Arthur tossed it somewhere in the back of his mind, not expecting to ever dig it back up in the future to make sense of the paranoid memory.

“Make yourself comfortable, yea? I'll be there in a jiffy.”

Arthur watched, in slight shock, as the man strutted across the room towards the small file cabin in the farthest corner. He started digging in the drawers, carelessly, whilst Arthur looked back at 'his seat' and had to remind himself to close his mouth as his jaw had dropped at Eames' idea of dinner. There wasn't a chance in hell he'd get down on hands and knees to eat like a fucking dog underneath a table. No fucking way.

Though the boy's rage found its spark, refreshed with agitation, he remained quiet.

Eames walked back towards him, holding a couple of folders horizontally with a pen balancing on top of them. He completely ignored Arthur as he dropped down on his chair, sighing pleasantly and laying down the papers next to his plate before opening one of the folders.

“I would like to share with you, little one, that you will not receive medication until you've food in your belly.” Eames spoke with a bored tone to his voice, his sight maintained on the papers in front of him, pen already scribbling away. Stupidly enough, it was the demeaning 'little one' that bothered Arthur more than the actual message of the man's words. His hackles rose immediately and he glared at the man's profile.

“Also, we will be leaving this room the moment I am finished with these files and since your next meal will take place in identical fashion as well as sixteen hours from now, I advice you to suck up your pride and not waste precious time.” Eames told him this, all the while writing with his right hand and scooping food on the fork in his left one.  
Arthur would've been impressed by his ambidextrousness if it weren't for the fact that he was, you know, an absolute asshole.

Whilst the boy grew more agitated and more confused with each passing second, he tried to decide whether his pride overpowered his hunger or if it were the other way around. His tummy growled in response to his pondering, replying loud and clear and causing the child to grimace at the ache of it all.

Minutes ticked by and the more food disappeared between Eames' full lips, the more desperate Arthur began to feel. It was a mere quarter of an hour later when the American got very much tired of standing still, naked, in silence whilst still cupping himself.  
Even if he'd not eat that same evening, his hunger would only grow and there would no longer be an opportunity, in which he could eat at a table like any other normal human being, presented at him in the future.

So... what was the use of rebellion? His pride couldn't overpower basic necessities such as nutrition. He couldn't simply starve himself to prove a point. To the contrary, he needed food and then the medication in order to heal, grow stronger and be prepared for when he got out of here.

The child closed his eyes, inhaled deep, swallowed down the sickening pit which had crawled up to the back of his throat, and then dropped down slowly onto his knees.  
He barely managed not to growl when noting that the plate of food stood just inbetween Eames' feet. His legs were spread comfortably, the right one swaying ever to lightly in a subconscious manner.

With a grimace on his face, the boy stared at the food which he could swear was beckoning him over with a curling finger shaped by the little steam left radiating off the plate. The expensive, leather shoes framing it ruined the whole picture though. Arthur's stomach contracted angrily, obviously upset at his hesitance and this time the boy did growl, out loud, at the annoyance and preposterousness of it all.

Eames paused his writing, looking up from his papers and lifting both eyebrows high enough to wrinkle his forehead.

“No need to growl at it. Not gonna talk back, is it?”

Arthur clenched his jaws at the Brit's joke, outraged over his horrible sense of humor, before inhaling deeply and crawling under the table on hands and knees.  
It was one of the more humiliating moments in his life and the boy was surprised at his own willingness and ability to deal with such shameful happenings. Biting back the claustrophobic sensation of being crowded by not only looming furniture but as well long, framing legs, Arthur sat down on the backs of his calves. His shoulders had to hunch only a little bit, his body still short enough to not be forced into a pretzel under the table.

Eames not-so-casually retrieved a gun from behind his belt, making sure it flashed in Arthur's line of sight before he placed it on the table with a loud thud.  
Arthur's plans for punching the man in the groin melted away sadly.

For a second longer Arthur stared at Eames' crotch, before frowning and directing his attention to the plate between the man's feet. He reached out with a hand, pausing mid-air when the Brit's voice spoke.

“Hands on my feet.” Eames murmured, his tone distracted, and Arthur could still hear him scribbling down on the papers above him.

With determination the boy bit back the embarrassment-fueled rage boiling his blood and without much further thought placed his hands on the bridges of Eames' feet. The material of his Oxfords was surprisingly soft beneath the pads of Arthur's fingers and even through the lovely scent of food he caught a hint of the shoes' leather. He suppressed a shiver caused by something the boy could not yet define and instead optioned to glare at Eames' crotch in front of him, confident he'd never know.

After prodding the laces of Eames' left shoe with his index-finger, Arthur took a deep breath and lowered himself on his elbows, dipping his face down slowly. Agreeing to himself that there was no room for pride at this moment as he had to think of the medication awaiting him were he to be obedient to the Brit, Arthur scooped mashed potatoes with his tongue into his mouth.  
His senses immediately got treated with the warmth and delicious taste of a proper, nutritious meal. Arthur exhaled a tiny moan, eyes fluttering closed. The weight of the food on his tongue's buds was enough to wipe away the last self-tortured believes of needing to protect his pride by starving himself, by acting up all the time. With a brain sending out pleasurable chemicals, like a drug, Arthur found it hard to feel any guilt for enjoying current happenings.

Though Arthur used all of his self-control to keep any groans and hums from traveling up his throat, he still noticed too late how his fingers had dug into the man's shoes, his nails pressing half-moon crescents in the expensive brown leather. Convinced the man could feel the damaging pressure through the thin fabric, Arthur was surprised he did not get scolded at all. Apparently Eames didn't mind Arthur's passive-aggressive appreciation of a good meal and hence the boy kept his grip firm, his excuse being that he wanted desperately to ruin the three-hundred something pounds worth of footwear.

Eating without using hands, let alone cutlery, was awkward to say the least, but still the boy managed to clean off his plate under ten minutes. He'd consumed everything on it, and when he started to lap to swipe off the last remains, the plate scraped over the floor. Eames moved his feet slightly, though Arthur was bright enough to not withdraw his hands without expressively being told do so such, and instead watched how the man cradled the plate with the insides of his feet.  
Arthur clenched his jaws, strangely upset at the man's 'help' but he still leaned down, licking the plate clean now that he could apply pressure in the swipes of his tongue as Eames prevented the china from sliding over the floor.

The child's grip on Eames' shoes was firm, his fingers squeezing and digging whilst he lapped the last traces off the surface. Once finished, Arthur straightened up a bit to not bruise his elbows any longer as he'd been resting his weight on them. His head felt fuzzy, as if in a daze, with chemicals rewarding the choices he'd made within the past quarter of an hour.

Eames continued scribbling down on the files and Arthur listened to the sound of the pen, vibrating through the wood, above him. His fingers now relaxed on the bridges of the Colonel's feet, grip barely there, but a weight still apparent enough to assure the man Arthur was still obeying the command he'd given some time ago. The boy was aware he'd have to start learning how to deal with this Brit. Though his rage seemed to burst out of nowhere, it wasn't that hard to figure out what triggered it at the time itself. The problem was that Eames was ridiculously difficult to read, to predict. Arthur would have to keep his eyes wide open and his ears receptive were he to want to be capable of manipulating the Brit to his hand as much as that'd ever be possible.

Some time passed before Arthur could hear Eames collecting papers, scrambling them together and then tapping them on the table to even out the pages. The boy held his breath.

“You may let go now.” He spoke, voice void of any emotion. Arthur gladly obeyed, pulling his hands away and wiping a wrist over his mouth before resting both his palms on his thighs which ached because he'd been seated with bent legs for so long.

His shame returned with a vengeance now that he'd gotten off the food-induced high and with desperation Arthur tried to figure out why Eames had commanded what he had. Why had he wanted for Arthur to be butt-naked, eating like a dog, under a table, pretty much between the man's legs. Of course it had almost everything to do with a dominance and a sense of absolute control... But still, had he not heard of corporal punishment? Arthur knew that many slaves would receive a beating when they misbehaved.  
And yes, Arthur would prefer a slap in the face over the humiliation he'd had to experience today.  
Hell, the boy had to admit to himself that he desired to throw away his mute-act just so he could talk back at Eames, rile him up and tempt him to throw him around to get his nasty dominance out of the way. If Eames could just snap, it'd be out of his system. He'd punch Arthur and leave him in physical pain, but then it'd be over with.  
Not like this. Not with ignoring Arthur one moment, then having him naked and on his knees the next all the while telling horrible jokes and throwing him the slyest of smirks. In this fashion Arthur was being left in stress and paranoia twenty-four seven.

It was either that or actually behaving perfectly well and avoid punishment altogether. Nonetheless, the boy doubted he could ever please this man to a point where his own conscience would be left clean and the man's hunger for authority cruel-free.  
However, at this point in time they seemed to be testing one another, still. Arthur was too cocky to be obedient but as well too unsure to start a fucking riot. Until he knew this man, Arthur was not able to chose the direction to take that'd offer him the best of outcomes.

His building headache paused when Eames got up from his chair, the paws scraping over the floor.  
Arthur hunched his shoulders farther, dipping his head so he could glance from below the table, watching how the Brit tugged his gun back behind his belt before walking away with his folders in hand. The child made sure to glare the largest of daggers in Eames' back now that he could, though he stayed seated just to be sure.

After the Colonel had discarded the papers back in the drawer from which he'd retrieved them earlier, he walked back towards the table, _and_ Arthur.  
The child curled up his nose when Eames placed a forearm on the table's top, leaning down and peeking underneath it at Arthur.

“Alright there?” He asked, glancing down at the plate in front of Arthur's knobby knees. The boy squeezed his hands between his thighs, covering his nudity.

“Enjoyed that, did ye?” With that he reached out and though Arthur knew he was going for the plate, he still winced and leaned away a bit, the top of his head brushing against the table's underside.  
Surprisingly enough the man paused his movements as if heeding a startled animal's body-language. Their eyes met and Eames blinked slowly like a cat, a smile curling on his full lips.

“Good lad.”

The stretch of his mouth and wrinkles around his eyes would've been charming -perhaps even comforting- had he been anyone but Eames. So Arthur ignored the little spark of hopefulness left within him from the days before his world had been shaken by the war, and snarled unabashedly.

Eames ignored the feral expression and retrieved the plate, placing it on top of the table.

“Come.” His voice chimed the command and Arthur watched for a moment how the man's feet were firmly planted next to the table, toes pointing towards the boy, unmoving.  
Though unsure of what was to happen now, Arthur crawled from underneath the table, slowly getting to his feet and all the while making sure to keep himself cupped in both of his hands. His body ached as it got unfolded and this was one of the many reasons why Arthur did not hesitate to consume the medication and glass of water Eames reached out to him. With one hand on his privates, Arthur downed the pills greedily before reaching back the now-empty glass.

Whilst Eames placed the tumbler on the table next to the empty plates, Arthur kept his eyes down, and happened to note the damage he'd caused to the man's shoes with his own nails. He was satisfied with having damaged such expensive footwear, but then the Colonel didn't seem upset about it at all, which ruined the whole sadistic experience.

There followed a long pause when Eames had resumed his position a few feet across Arthur. The boy could feel him watching him and wondered whether the man's apparent patience and stalling was for the sake of making him cringe in discomfort.

“Come here.”

Initially the American hesitated at the command, more so because of the calmness to Eames' voice which had been betrayed multiple times in the little past they'd shared. However, when a bark failed to follow and Eames didn't do so much as reach out a hand or sigh in impatience, Arthur optioned to obey the simple command.  
Perhaps a submissiveness would grant him some more mercy for the night. His pride stung at his own thoughts, shouting at him to rebel even harder because Eames would eventually still find a reason to hurt him, no matter how good he'd act now.  
After all, he was a filthy Brit. To make matters worse, he also happened to be the Colonel of England's military which had infiltrated America on multiple occasions; ruining the life Arthur had once had.

And the child tried to remind himself of these facts many times every day, if possible every hour. He nearly got tired of his own determination to make sure he stayed angry at the world and think of his own survival. Though, the fact that he even needed reminding was the worst of all.  
Eames was the enemy nonetheless. No matter if Arthur would grow weak or not. He was a cold-hearted soldier who'd show no empathy to the scrawny street-kid... Not in the long run. If he ever found out Arthur was American, all hell would break loose and the child was convinced he'd witness the wrath of true sadistic greed and racism-led violence.  
Why would Eames ever treat him differently? Why would Eames ever be kind to him, help him? There was no way and Arthur just needed to fucking remember this every second of every day.

With a head full of dread and scrambled rationalizations, Arthur took a few steps forwards towards the man, eyes focused on how his tiny, pale feet patted closer to the large, brown Oxfords. The boy's inward-footing showed all the miles inbetween their lifestyles and stance in society. Eames stood with legs slightly spread, toes pointing out, rooted to English soil.

His body was tense and Arthur had to stop walking for a second, growing more nauseas the closer he got to the man.

“Closer.” Eames' voice was soft, almost quiet, lacking any mock and all violence. Arthur took one step.

“Closer.” He repeated and the boy, once more, obeyed.

“Closer until I tell you to stop.”

Arthur's body was not only tensed with injuries and infections but as well a coiled up readiness to lash out. A fight-or-flee desire thrumming underneath the surface of his skin which prickled under the man's hot stare.  
The boy walked closer, slow, watching how his feet end up between the men's own before at last Eames told him to stop. Arthur was only just shy of having his nose bump into the Colonel's chest and he held his breath, refusing to breathe in his scent.

Predictable it took all of the child's willpower to not strike when Eames wrapped a light arm around his shoulders, pulling him near. Had it not been for the lightness and the slowness of Eames' actions, for the silence in which he moved, for the warmth his body radiated, Arthur doubted he'd not have jumped the Brit and bitten his nose right off his stupid face.

Not unlike when he'd been embraced after his first punishment in the shape of a cold shower, Arthur's mind melted slightly at the comfort an embrace brought along with it. Though the boy was very much aware he was mentally older than most kids his age, he still suffered that childish hope, that false sense of security and that possible presence of honesty to clog up his mind. Even if only for a second, and knowing how foolish it was to melt against the man's body, Arthur allowed himself to be emptied of thoughts and just breathe. Sure, there was the possibility he'd be butchered on the spot right then and there... but there was also the possibility that would not happen... There was a possibility that next to betraying his own roots and living alongside the enemy, there would be moments of kindness that'd allow him to rest his conscience, lie blatantly at it that everything was alright.

The hug lacked a pressure, literally as well as figuratively. Eames had only one arm around the boy's much shorter frame, and though it held enough power to pull Arthur into his atmosphere; a smothering scent of tobacco and masculinity that got thickened by his body-heat, it still was loose enough to hint that the child could break apart if desired.  
Absentmindedly the child knew he could be receiving a blow to the guts or fingers around his throat any second... However, the embrace lasted for minutes, long enough to cause Arthur's breathing to synchronize with Eames' and though this physical contact was being shared by a man he very much despised, it was still the most intimate hug he remembered having ever been a part of.

“Good boy.” Eames whispered, loosening his hold though only so he could splay a wide-fingered hand between the kid's shoulder-blades. Arthur's blood simmered at the condescending compliment, but it failed to boil to a high enough temperature to lure him away from the physical contact.  
Perhaps it had been too long since he'd last been held. This was a thought that had not yet occurred to him before but it was a fact he'd been living on the streets on his own with no adult to watch over him. He didn't need a grown man to look after him... of course he didn't... But the little boy inside of him still appreciated the fantasy.

Arthur sunk the top-row of his teeth into his lower lip, in absolute uncertainty and confusing agony because of his own thoughts which jumped at different opinions without end. What was he to believe, to do, to think, to want? Why were these choices he had to make at twelve years of age?

Eames stroked once over his back like one would pat the neck of a horse, before pulling away and avoiding having Arthur slip into an anxious rage.

Ignoring, bravely so, how the cold wrapped around his naked body now that Eames had removed himself, Arthur instead took deep breaths to ground his thoughts and retrieve his disgust for the Colonel. He hated him. Every part of him. That was the plot of his story; hate Eames. That's it. Just hate him, hate him, fucking hate him forever and then some.

Their relationship was based on power-play, indirect abuse and full-blown manipulation. There was a well-disguised presence of mind-games being played because Arthur had never been one to second-guess himself nor had he ever been confused about his own ideas and opinions. When Eames opened the door, smiling slightly at him, he caused the child to feel unsteady on conscience and feet. And it absolutely fucked with the child's brain.

That's the last thing he wanted. If anything, Eames would not intrude Arthur's mind to squeeze and twist it to his own hand.   
The child's guard built up in record-time and he remained silent, eyes looking down at his own feet, no longer framed by Eames' much larger ones.  
He'd had a weak moment just now and half-heartedly promised himself he'd never allow himself to enjoy physical contact between himself and Eames again. It was easier to tell himself this now that he was standing in the middle of the room, naked and cold and with the object of his hatred many feet away from him.

“Come with me. We're not finished quite yet.” Eames cheerfully interrupted Arthur's mental mass-suicide.

The child looked up then, observing the grin on the Brit's face; all false charm and crooked teeth, and it was the excitement that accompanied his disgust that truly worried him.

Though convinced his hatred for the man was genuine, Arthur was not blind to the intensity of his emotions.  
And he hated that; feeling so hardly, even if negative. His control was not lost exactly... but more so _taken_ from him by this man.   
And that was something the child had not experienced before.  
Arthur had never met a man who had such a stifling amount of personality that choked him into a silence.

For the first time in a long time Arthur no longer felt in control of his own self.  
Eames was picking him apart and he did not know how to stop it.

The child was, well, _absolutely lost_.

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Part V.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rewritten (August 2015)

**Eames.**

 

The lad had been suspiciously subdued for quite some time now. Though Eames had sensed the glares burning in his back whenever the child would be behind him, mentioned boy had yet to act up. Certainly he had ruined one of Eames' antiques but that had happened behind his back. Since he'd pulled him up by his hair, had him carve the apology and then made him eat naked, positioned like a dog at the Brit's feet, the Yank had not been overly cocky.

The man almost felt disappointed at the lack of a fight and could only hope the child was as strong as he'd initially thought him to be. Whereas the prior plan had been to get himself a bloody doormat of a slave, he'd quickly changed directions when the Yank had awakened an inappropriate hunger to dominate within him.

However, Eames had still been pleasantly surprised the moment the boy had dropped to his knees. It had not been a blind obedience either. The child had clearly been struggling with his own opinions on the matters and this had lasted for well over fifteen minutes. It had only made it better...  
Though the man's goal was to have the Yank act upon command without hesitation, there was still something thrilling about watching someone battle their own conscience and still end up doing that which they themselves did not prefer. Eames had wanted him to undress and that's what he'd done. Eames had wanted him to get on his knees and crawl under the table, and this as well he had done.  
Never mind the child's reasoning most likely had been about keeping his master's mood from dropping low enough to trigger another fit of impulsive aggression (which often times was hardly as impulsive as Eames enjoyed making people believe), he'd still acted upon the tasks given to him when he could've easily refused and rebelled against the Brit.

The tug he'd felt within his chest when the boy had crawled meekly under the table told Eames more than he was comfortable admitting to himself.  
He bloody enjoyed this. Similar to the self-indulging satisfaction when leading his army to victory, Eames shuddered with pleasure at dominating the boy successfully. Perhaps the child's slowness and doubts of Eames' commands was what pleased the man even more so than immediate results, for it showed the boy did not act out of fear (not always) but instead fought with his own thoughts to the point where it was his mind that decided to be good, not his instincts.  
If anything, the Brit would very much desire to hold a grand piece of that mind within his hands. He'd never ruin it, but he so longed to tweak it to his preferences and leave just a tad of arrogance intact. Pick him apart and reassemble the child around his core which would be left proud and certain.

Again, witnessing his own ugly preferences, Eames experienced a sense of disgust for the manner in which he enjoyed overpowering a powerless child. And though the realizations were a tad painful -if not sickening-, Eames had never been one to live in denial. Life, after all, was far too short for this. But time as well was too limited to suffer by your own conscience too much.  
So, at that, the colonel swiped his darker parts under the carpet, leaving it bumped and uneven though hidden from his view which preferred to look anywhere but at the ground.  
Perhaps one day he'd start cleaning up the mess in his skull. Until then, he'd enjoy the view from the window leading outside the dark room which had failed to feel like a home for many years now.

A stifled cough caused Eames to glance over his shoulder at the child who was following behind him as they walked through the hallway. He had his arms wrapped around his chest, hands stroking up and down his arms and an obvious shiver shook his body. A body which was agonizingly beautiful.  
Eames had accepted his bisexuality ages ago and had no shame when it came to confessing to himself he liked men as much as he did women, if not more. However, it still chilled him to the bone that he fancied the boy's scrawny, pale and hairless frame.  
The Yank was all too-long-limbs and immaculately stiff posture. Granted, he'd do well with some fat over his ribs, spine and hips, nonetheless, his protruding bones did not blemish his beauty whatsoever. The point was that he was still a child, a teenager who'd seen enough grief to age his brain by a decade, but a child he remained nonetheleast.

“Are you cold?” Eames asked the question; unnecessary but convenient to stop his own mind from wandering ever further than it had just seconds ago.

Of course the boy did not answer and Eames had to mentally applaud his ability to keep his mouth shut for the sake of keeping up his mute-act. After all, Eames was pretty convinced the Yank wanted to toss every dirty word he'd ever come across at his head at very, very high velocity.

Eames turned his head back to look in front of him, turning another corner and spotting the door to his destination at the end of the hallway. Once reached, he placed a hand on the knob, turning around to watch the boy who stood still behind him, covering his privates with one hand, the other one on his arm as he hugged his chest still.

“Whether you'll be redressed for the night will be entirely up to you.” Eames vaguely stated before opening the door and waving the boy in.

Both entered Eames' office (the one he actually did some work in, unlike at the desk in his bedroom) and the colonel nearly bumped into the boy's back when the latter stopped dead in his tracks. Closing the door behind him, quietly, the man optioned to observe the child who was stood frozen, staring at the opposite wall which was greatly hidden behind various shelves stacked with books.  
Eames frowned in pleased curiosity.

He rounded the Yank, coming to stand next to him and folded his hands behind his back as he traveled his eyes over the spines of bound papers.

“Do you like literature?” Eames asked, gazing at the boy from his peripheral vision. The child didn't nod or shake his head, instead he just kept staring at the books, his eyes shifting quick from one side to the other as he was reading all of the spines. It took him a couple of long seconds before he blinked and then glanced at Eames. His eyes were dark in the dim light of the room, or perhaps it was because of the contrast with his stark and pale nudity.  
When the child looked away, dipping his chin without having allowed a single hint of a reply to seep from his features, Eames exhaled slowly.

“Go stand in that corner over there.” Eames spoke, pointing in the assigned direction; the corner across of his desk.  
“Face the wall, hands behind your back. Do not move an inch once in position.” With a voice void of emotion, though drenched in authority, Eames spoke in clipped tones.

Without waiting for the slave to act upon his command -confident he'd obey once the words had been translated in his medicinally sluggish brain- the colonel walked towards his desk. There was plenty of paperwork left to do and now was an ideal time as any other should be. This time though he'd experience the enjoyment of having the child in his presence. He could punish him all night if he'd desire to, though Eames was pretty sure that if the child did as he were told he'd remove him from the corner in a couple of hours.  
After all, damaging furniture was not worthy to be condemned over.

It took another two minutes after Eames had taken place in his seat before the Yank at last seemed to wake up from his troubled daydream and with feet softly patting on the floor, walked towards the corner the man had pointed him to. There'd be a time in the future where his slowness would no longer be accepted, but for now the man just enjoyed the struggle in the boy's mind, loud and brutal enough to fill the room's silence with dread.

The office, being rather small, offered Eames a perfect view on his slave even when in the opposite corner of the room. His posture was mockingly proud, stiff as a board, his pale back a near straight line as he pulled back his shoulders in order to clasp his hands together and have them rest on the swell of his arse.  
The toothpick Eames had popped between his teeth mere seconds ago, snapped in half at the boy's obnoxious ability to portray sarcasm without so much as pulling a face, let alone words.  
_Bloody knobhead._

He spent several moments staring at the child's unwavering body only to end up retrieving his pack of fags from the top drawer of his desk. The least he could do while working -though he had yet to start on a single file- was enjoy himself a bit, indulge on the unhealthy habit that'd kill him off if a bullet did not beat it to it.  
He'd earned a couple of smokes, certainly so. Especially since he needed the distraction from the prissy brat across the room; taking his punishment like a bloody professional.

It wasn't until he'd finished one case and four cigarettes before a soft groan sounded from across the room. Eames peered up, the pen in his hand shifting as he tightened his grip on it. The slave shifted minutely, trying to divide his weight before he not-so-subtly rolled his neck. The sounds of bones popping caused Eames to shiver in an almost jealous delight. His own back felt like a brick wall.

“Do not move unless I tell you to. That was your first warning.” Eames spoke, his voice firm enough to carry across the dozen-or-so meters separating them.

The painkillers surely were helping the boy out a bit because Eames had not expected the kid to be this good at standing still in the exact same position. It wasn't a form of punishment often practiced by other slave owners and hence, very much underrated. Whereas many would believe a thorough whipping or a simple blow to the guts would do the trick at taming servants, Eames preferred these slower, meaner tactics. Though he'd never outspokenly enjoyed playing with his food, the colonel still preferred this child to hiss and groan rather than scream in absolute agony. He might be a tad sadistic, but he was no heinous abuser.

“Hands on your head.” The Brit spoke after another quarter of an hour. He could hear the boy sigh in relief as surely the change of stance would offer his muscles a moment to get out of their strained poses. However, that would not last long. The child's arms would start quivering in no time, his neck would grow sore with the weight of his hands, the small of his back would sting in its arched curve.  
Eames observed, for a moment longer, the boy's stretched body. His eyes traveled over the pale skin; still liberally covered with bruises, though many had started to fade or change colors. In the arched stance, the slave's ribs and shoulder-blades protruded even more candidly.  
Similar to how the man had been drawn to the nape of his neck, to his own greatest confusion, he now randomly noticed the pointy angle of the child's elbows as his arms were bent. He was awfully small. Petite, even, to a point where the man started to doubt more and more whether or not this child had already reached adolescence yet. With a body that looked like twelve but eyes that seemed wiser than the average man in Eames' army; it was certainly hard to stamp a year on the boy.

Speaking of dumb men, a knock resounded on the wooden door, startling Eames out of his stare and thoughts.

“Yeah?!” He barked, already agitated at the interruption.  
The door opened, revealing Jack's face as it peeked around it. Eames huffed under his breath before burying his face in the palm of his hand. As the colonel, he never really did have a moment to himself.

“Good day, colonel, I-uhm.” Eames interrupted him with a wave of his hand, beckoning him inside as he'd grown agitated watching the bag of nerves lingering at his door rather than walk inside proper and polite.

“What is it, Jack?” The man asked his soldier who closed the door gingerly behind him before pacing towards the desk behind which Eames was seated.

“I'm a bit busy.” He added just to be a pain in the lad's arse, just to watch his shoulders pull up and his eyes widen by a fraction.

“Yes, sir, I do apologize.” Jack assured while Eames leaned back in his seat, dropping hands on his thighs and squeezing the muscles firmly in order to rub away some of his annoyance.

“We've retrieved more information about your slave, sir.” The young man spoke in excited tones, taking a few steps closer with new-gained confidence as he brought along the good news. Eames watched the brown folder being discarded upon his desk before long fingers slid it closer towards him.

“Did you now?” Eames muttered pleasantly, reveling in the tensing of the child's body across the room.  
Jack followed his colonel's gaze, looking over his own shoulder and choking on his own spit when noting the naked child in the corner, hands on his head, body stretched in a lean line of spine-bumps and pale skin.

“Oh.” He exhaled, a sound of interest and surprise before turning back to Eames and grinning bare his teeth. Eames frowned at the young soldier, not understanding the 'inside-joke' expression on his face.

“That's an interesting tactic of discipline, Mr. Eames.” Jack added, his eyebrows wagging whilst those of Eames' seemed to lower to a point where the man feared they'd be substituting a mustache any giving moment now.  
He really started to doubt that Jack didn't belong in Saito's cellar sometimes... Along with the other daft young specimens he kept shackled in the darkness. Perhaps that was too cruel of a thought, even for the soldier.

“Is it?” Eames asked in a rhetorical fashion, though was convinced the bloke would not catch on that quickly.

“Well, yes, sir.” Jack confirmed, nodding and actually taking a few steps in order to turn his body so he could watch Eames' slave more easily. The Brit himself glared at the young man's jawline, mentally stabbing him in the neck, multiple times.

“Lord Saito is more physical when it comes to disciplining his slaves.” He shared with a thoughtful touch to his voice, as if pondering to himself the reasons why Eames -whom, granted, was one of Britain's most feared men- was punishing his slave by simply having him stand in the corner of his office. That being said, the Brit was aware that most underestimated the severity of physical and even mental strain that corner-time and monotony brought along with it.  
Still, not only was it rude for Jack to hint his doubts about Eames' tactics, but as well was it highly unprofessional to be outing such information and opinions in the same room the slave was inhabiting.

“You've seen it, have you?” Eames asked, rising from his seat, his demeanor restless and his hands itchy as he rounded the desk.

Jack hummed, nodding before tipping his head a bit to the side, ogling the Yank in such obvious fashion it unleashed a peculiar savageness within the colonel's possessiveness. A possessiveness which never before had urged him to consider attacking the threat of his belongings. And that was a first as well... viewing a human being as an actual belonging; something he desired to mark as his.

“How would you do it?” Eames asked as he came to stand next to the shorter man. He placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it hard enough for Jack to wince at the spot.

“I'm sorry?” His voice pitched high enough to crack and Eames stared at his slave, though observed Jack in his peripheral vision; watching how the soldier glanced at the large hand on his shoulder.

“Discipline him. How?” Eames clarified, allowing his jaws to relax and the lids of his eyes to weigh down a bit to feign a calmness. Granted the young man still hesitated before replying, his instinct telling him that he should shut up and get out of here. But his still-boyish desire to impress his colonel would be his down-fall.

“Depends on what he did, sir.” He murmured thoughtfully, crossing his arms so he could lean an elbow in his palm and prod his chin on bent fingers.

“Damaging of property, he did.” Eames indulged, whispering it into Jack's ear with a smile on his lips. The soldier's eyebrows rose, wrinkling his forehead.

“Well...” He began, licking his lips nervously as he glanced at Eames who was close enough their noses would bump were the soldier to turn his face.

“Hm?” Eames encouraged him, smiling with teeth hidden behind pressed lips as his hand snaked from the soldier's shoulder to the nape of his neck.

“Lord Saito often beats his slaves with riding crops.” He hesitantly hinted and Eames narrowed his eyes.

“Does he?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you want to try it? Do you want to beat my slave?” Eames' voice was low, a hissing whisper so soft it'd never reach the Yank's ears. It was obvious Jack was catching up with the true atmosphere in the room, it was finally dawning on him that Eames was very displeased with him. The Brit could almost see the soldier's brain halt.

“I-uh-”

“It would be in your best interest, soldier, to leave this room before I rip that insolent tongue out of your mouth and rid you of those curious, ogling eyes.”

Jack's mouth opened and closed without a sound as Eames took a few steps to stand in front of him, blocking his view from the slave at the other side of the room.

“I'm sorry, sir, I didn't mea-” He choked on his voice when Eames proceeded to wrap fingers around the soldier's throat, holding him close and tight as he drilled his eyes into his.

“Get out.” The man spat, his heart thumping at the rage he felt for having a petty soldier so much as imagine touching Eames' slave.  
He didn't let go of the man's throat though and was bitterly amused at how Jack was too frightened to move an inch even though he'd been commanded to leave.

Various moments followed, in which Jack appeared frightened and Eames found a hard time in trying to settle down the ache of his contracting stomach and the noise of his grinding teeth. And there was a split second in which the Brit wondered whether or not he should make a scene. Would he benefit of a newfound obedience were he to intimidate the boy simply by throwing Jack out in an aggressive manner? Would the child finally figure out to behave when noting the violent nature his owner could portray towards soldiers, let alone slaves?  
Or, unlikely so but still possible, would the Yank figure out Eames' tactic to frighten him and simply perceive the Brit as a loud-mouthed yet unsure being? Whether or not that lather opinion would be truthful or not, Eames would rather not risk putting their psychological dynamic on the spot this early on, and hence he optioned to let go of Jack's throat and head back to his desk.

The soldier left after another awkward and stiff bow, the redness on his throat begging to be soothed by a soft palm which Eames could see reach up right before the door shut behind him.

Once again alone with the kid, the Brit felt a weight drop off his shoulders. Though he had little to nothing to hide regarding the boy in his home, Eames still knew that Jack would be telling Saito of today's events and was rather convinced that the lad had visited on the leader's command. It was highly possible that Jack would be serving as Saito's spy, since the young soldier was one of Eames errand-boys.

Eames blinked at that thought, suddenly grateful for having optioned to remain as distant and controlled as had been possible only minutes ago. He'd still gotten a tad too emotional, but it could be described as a possessiveness that Eames knew Saito as well experienced and hence would not find difficult to believe of his right-hand to have. Though, if this failed to sound convincing enough, there was still the fact that Saito knew of how Eames liked to play out an impulsive aggression simply to keep his men on their toes. It'd be an easy lie to tell, but a lie nonetheless.

Annoyed by the doubt and tension the kid had brought along with him to scatter all about in Eames' conscience, the latter sat down in his chair, observing the pale rascal.

“Spread your arms and lean all of your weight on your right leg.”

Whether the boy was sensing Eames' bad mood or whether he'd simply been dying to change positions, he acted immediately with taking back a step so he could spread his arms without having his fingers touch the walls of the corner. His hips angled as he rested all of his weight on the flat of his right foot, his left leg bent at the knee as it rested more comfortably.

The colonel took the folder Jack had left on his desk, making sure to have the noise of paper being touched and moved resound loudly in the space. He still managed to zone out when he'd opened the cover, instead thinking back on how Jack had outright ogled the child. It disgusted him for some reason. He liked to believe he felt nauseated by the fact that his mid-twenties soldier had been eying up a child with a hunger in his eyes that should never be present when one was taking in the sight of an infant. Yet, earlier that same day had Eames not done the same?  
Eames had appreciated the boy's lean and pale body when they'd been pacing from the bedroom to his office. However, the Brit did believe there had not been a sexual appeal present. Granted he observed the child often for bruises, he had a keen eye to spot injury and he wanted to make sure to know how emaciated the kid was so he could adjust his diet to the best of his capabilities.

But still... there was a craving in the back of his mind, like a thought that seemed to be stuck behind a door of conscience and properness. He wasn't sure what was locked in there, but he could hear the muffled screams, could feel the urgency in which it clawed at him, in which it whined and did all it could to break down that last barrier and have the man face the inner demon that had been lurking in there forever without his knowledge until now... Until he'd met the boy.

The colonel grimaced as he looked away from the quiet slave and instead looked down at the papers in his hand.  
He read them through carefully, slow and methodically, looking for any information he could use for and against the Yank. It was only when he went to read the file for a fourth time that a soft moan interrupted him.

Eames glanced up, watching how the child's arms were trembling and had lowered tremendously since ten minutes ago. His left leg wasn't as bent anymore, nor was the right one as stretched as it had been.

“Hold it.” Eames warned and could see the boy resume the proper position with some difficulty.

When resuming to read the child's file, he allowed a chuckle to part from his lips. There, at the top of the third page the Yank's name was displayed. Eames would've spluttered out his drink or choked on his food were he to be having consumed anything at the exact moment he'd read the name for the first time not that long ago. It still did not fail to amuse him, however, even after witnessing it for the umpteenth time.

You see, 'Joe Johnson' proved to be almost as fake a name as 'John Smith' or 'Peter Peterson', all of which Eames had heard before in the context of false identifications. His age, on paper, was twelve, which could be truthful but also a lie in order to have the authorities go easier on him. After all, children would rarely be killed by the law and hence if you survived slavery and underground amateur-murder attempts, you could make it out some way.  
There was little known about his family and again the Brit could not be too sure about what was genuine or not. The boy's file stated that his mother had passed away a little over two years ago, there was no information on how she'd died nor was there any identification on her existence. His father was an even bigger mystery and the only thing shared with Eames was that he had disappeared prior to his wife's death, which meant the child and his mother perhaps had spent a few months or years together, on their own.  
Neither bodies had never been found, or at least not retrieved.

Eames looked up for another second, staring at the back of the child's head, uncharacteristically curious about his past and his emotional well-being.

When reading further, the man wondered of how in heaven's name the boy had managed to have his nationality stated as 'British citizen' within his identification papers. Had he intentionally left false clues behind to lead the military on false tracks? Or had his mother taken care of this before she'd died? Had she gotten her hands on forged Ids? Either way, the job had been done, circle-shaped stamp of the London courthouse included; the blue ink validating as it had gotten pressed over the boy's nationality and date of birth.

“Remarkable...” He murmured to himself before continuing in a louder tone of voice.  
“According to your medical background, there is no indication of you being incapable of forming speech.” Eames bluffed easily, leaning back and taking the folder with him so he could aggravate the boy with the sound of turning pages. 'Joe' tensed only slightly, but this could also have been the ache of his muscles.  
In actuality it did say the child had been a victim of frontal-lobe injury, rendering him mute. However, with his sleep-talking, this would not be possible and though select muteness could be a thing, the obvious answer was still that the child had been taught to not speak simply to hide his American tongue. It had been done before, perhaps with less neat forging of medical explanations to the lack of a voice, but this still didn't fool the colonel.

“It's a shame for you to keep up such an act, especially considering the delightful name you could pronounce to introduce yourself to me.” The Brit continued his charade, watching closely how 'Joe's' shoulders tensed and biceps flexed. He'd always been a fan of gambling and alongside this; bluffing came as a second nature. He'd been a thief in a previous life and slyness coursed through his blood like a rooted instinct.  
“Your _real_ name, that is.” Eames added for good measure before retrieving a fag from the pack of cigarettes on his desk, lighting it with a deep inhale and a loud clink as he shook close the Zippo lighter.

“Lower your arms and sit down on your knees.” He demanded, stepping the game up a notch. The fingers of his free hand drummed a vague rhythm on the wooden desk, the thumps loud in the silence.

Though 'Joe' did as he was told, he looked a whole lot more tense than he'd been only seconds ago, as if he could foresee the danger in their game now that Eames had information on him. It was the right fear to experience, after all, the more the Brit had to play the child with, the further he could take punishments and the more violently he could push boundaries to get to what he wanted.  
You see, the more he knew about the Yank, the more he could request of the slave to tell him and do for him, the more he figured out this child, the easier it'd be for Eames to push his buttons. Having knowledge equaled having power and since 'Joe' hadn't a clue who Eames was or what would happen to him, their dynamic only grew heavier. The Brit felt saliva pool underneath his tongue at the mere realization that the gap inbetween his control and the child's uncertainty was only going to increase.

“Keep your back straight.” Eames warned when watching the curve in the boy's spine as he was hunching over, the firmness of his arse resting upon the backs of his calves. 'Joe' straightened up, shifting uncomfortably on his knobby knees which already ached as they had to carry his weight on hard floor-boards.

“Hands on your head.” The colonel continued and when seeing the boy rest both palms on the crown of his head, fingers intertwined, he hummed. The child already wobbled in the uncomfortable position and Eames took his time to finish another cigarette, never quite looking away because he knew it would take little to no time for the boy to move against his wishes.

Sure enough, barely four minutes in, 'Joe' groaned, his knees budged under his weight and he found the audacity to lower his buttocks down upon the backs of his legs. His hands were white-knuckled as they held on to his thick black curls and though Eames couldn't see his face, he could imagine the squint of it, bared teeth eager to hiss.

“Up!” The man barked with a voice strong enough it echoed off the walls in a room which wasn't quite empty enough to be producing such a chime. 'Joe' acted immediately, too quickly as if the sound of Eames' command had literally made him jump up. With his previous position back in order, the colonel enjoyed to observe the tremors that shook 'Joe's' body. He was trembling, trying to shift his weight from one knee onto the other. He'd been in the corner for quite some time now, but having to keep yourself up on your bony knees on a hard surface did pace up the process of breaking one physically and hopefully emotionally as well.  
Eames had some understanding of the soreness he must be going through at that exact moment but though he'd been on the streets like this child had, he never quite got physically disciplined like this.

The Yank's sense of pride came in handy when considering the strain he was being put through. 'Joe' would not easily give up, obviously would hate to lose a game which honestly had nothing to do with winning or losing in the first place. Eames was not only the initiator, not only the winner but as well the one to set the rules. It was his game foremost, and this boy just needed to understand he was to bend to the man's desires before he could ever stop playing. He needed to accept defeat which to him felt like losing but to Eames was simply a fact of molding him to his hand. 'Joe' was as much a loser as he himself decided to feel like and this predictably would be taking him a long time to figure out.

“Now, dear boy, you must know I am aware of not only the fact that you are very capable of forming words but more so of your _real_ , birth-given name.” Eames inhaled slowly before continuing.  
“You will stay in that position until you tell me your name.”

There was a twitch in 'Joe's' shoulders which caused Eames' skin to crawl as it had seemed to have been a suppressed chuckle. It wouldn't surprise him and though the Brit did enjoy some fight in his new slave, he still despised being mocked as if he was not a man to fear.

“If you happen to think you can out-smart me, do be aware I will add punishment when you give me a false name.” Almost absentmindedly Eames brushed a finger over the print of the child's name. Joe Johnson didn't suit him, even if it had been his real name, the Brit expected a posh name perhaps. Royal-like, proud and strong-headed. A name he'd actually remember for a change.

'Joe' groaned quietly, his body shifting as he tried to decrease the pressure of his own weight on his knees. Such as the colonel had expected, the Yank did not reply whatsoever. Eames did enjoy a challenge, did savor this child's stubbornness, simply because it clashed with his own and he knew who'd be having the last word.

It was when fifteen minutes had passed, in which the child kept losing his balance, hissing and jumping at Eames warning him to sit back up, that the colonel actually did grow impatient. Agitated, even. How much longer was he going to be quiet? Eames had nearly finished all his work and though he sadistically reveled in the tiny noises of discomfort and pain that came from the corner of the room, he still desired to see some progress. Perhaps Eames did feel a tad impressed as he had not expected the child to put up with the physical punishment this long. He didn't quite take it like a pro, but it still was remarkable to see such a young person be driven by such a sense of honor.

He didn't give in. Eames feared he'd pass out before he'd give up, and this was enough a justification to change tactics on the Yank.

With an exaggerated sigh, Eames got up from his seat, the furniture creaking under the pressure of his hands pushing off his weight. He opened a drawer, rummaging inside of it even though the object he wanted to retrieve was right there in front of him to grab. He only took it after witnessing 'Joe' thump his forehead against the wall, whining quietly to himself before straightening back up once again.  
Eames shut the drawer abruptly, loudly, before rounding his desk towards his slave.

The child's posture stiffened even more at the sound of the man's approaching footsteps behind him. Eames watched how his shoulders drew up and the manner in which his head dipped to the side for a split second as if he'd desired to peer over one bony shoulder. A warmth uncoiled low and deep within the man as he observed the submissive act of 'Joe' dipping his chin and baring the nape of his neck to the man.

Coming to a stop when partially beside and behind the boy, Eames dawdled, his eyes lingering on the way the Yank's body trembled in its effort to either remain within the position demanded of him or in plain apprehension, if not fear.  
After patting the object he'd retrieved from his desk's drawer on the palm of his hand, Eames reached it out. The end of the metal ruler came to rest against the American's throat, tapping upwards against the bottom of his chin in a wordless command for the child to lift his head and raise his sight. The child's breath hitched, eyes rolling up until they met Eames' in an awkward angle.  
The Brit leaned a bit over the boy to meet his gaze, trying to read what was going on in that little brain of his.

After a little while, only having read nervousness in 'Joe's' eyes, Eames urged his chin higher alongside his spoken command.  
“Move.”

For a moment it appeared the child was contemplating to cast the Brit one of his nastiest glares. However, after a simple twitch of eyelids, 'Joe' raised his chin to escape the pressure of the ruler and proceeded to scoot backwards over the floor from the corner.  
With a huff his body collapsed, every muscle relaxing, the shape of him falling into a hunched heap of limbs and bones and foul moods.

“It's just one word, you know?” Eames lightly hinted as he squatted to place the ruler on the floor. His fingers nudged the metal stick a couple of times, feigning a natural preference for precision in order to make the child's sense of suspicion run overtime.  
“Just a first name, that is all, really.” The man concluded with a shrug, avoiding all eye contact now that he was at the same level of height with the child.

“Take on your previous position. However-” Eames took a second to get back up, brushing dust off his knees before placing his hands on hips and looking down at the boy. The Yank's eyes were dark by pain and anger.  
“-unlike before you are now to face my desk as well as be seated with your knees on top of the ruler.” Though the man didn't take time for the lad to process what he'd commanded before returning to the other side of the room, Eames had still caught 'Joe's' soundless gasp.  
A gasp that apparently had been an inhalation for the sake of exhaling words.

“Piss off.”

Eames' skin crawled at the first sound of 'Joe's' voice. It was heavier than he'd expected, the volume of it low. There was an endearing -if not tantalizing- rasp to it that had been caused by having it underused as well as a whirlwind of emotions having shaken every inch of him, including the voice-box.

The colonel was all but surprised that the first words his slave had aimed at him had been of an insulting and disrespectful nature. Though, even in his anger, 'Joe' had optioned to have an English slang accompany his hatred. It sounded believable enough, had Eames not heard his American tongue go at it during night-terrors before.

Slapping a small smirk on his face, Eames glanced over his shoulder towards the now furious looking boy.

“I'm sure you can do better than that, yea?” He added teasingly though the warning was apparent within his gaze.

The Yank, no longer meek or obedient, glared with all the anger within his tiny body that he could manage bring up to the surface of his nostril-flared and clenched-jaws features. The Brit hummed, his stomach truly flipping at the thought of a proper challenge, but still look away and continue his way towards his desk.

With a pleased huff, the older man sat down on his chair before leaning on the wooden top with his elbows, resting his chin on thumbs as fingers steepled in front of his face.  
Progress at last. The child finally began crumbling. The boy had at last given up on his mute act. With one brick having fallen from the wall 'Joe' had drawn up in front of Eames, the rest would be taken down more easily now that the man could at last dig some fingers in there and start to strip him down. Eames had a grip on him now. 'Joe' had delved his own grave.  
The colonel smiled, nudging the tip of his nose against the tips of his index-fingers.

Physical discipline always did the trick and Eames had been a witness to this many more times before the slave had come along. So he'd known, certainly so, that the boy would've given in eventually. However still, it felt lovely to experience it, witness it, for the first time in far too long. It stroked the man's ego in all the right ways. No matter how strong your sense of pride and honor, physical torture played tricks on the brain and more specifically; the subconscious. He wondered if the boy had been aware of such or had truly believed he'd have been able to fight his master.  
Only fools and children possessed such arrogance and 'Joe' was at least one of those. Not so much the other.

The young child remained seated on the floor, legs sprawled in awkward fashion as they most likely would be prickling with renewed blood-flow. His knees were red in a premonition of bruising, though the process would only be quickened soon enough.  
'Joe' kept glaring, no matter the pain in his tired body which was evidently betrayed through the paleness of his face and the repetitive curling and uncurling of his tiny toes.

Eames could only dip his head, hiding the smile -which only widened- behind his fingers. For a few minutes, gaze set on the boy's face though without really _seeing_ , Eames contemplated on how to handle things from this point on. He had many options. The ones that'd grant instant satisfaction were not persé to Eames' likings. Though the man wanted 'Joe' to obey and display a sense of respect, he still did not prefer to teach him too hard-handedly. After all, he was but a child and it was only normal of him to be rebelling against the man who'd fought on his nemesis' side in the war... Not to mention, Eames had never been all that comfortable when it came to hurting children, not intentionally that is.  
It was an odd restraint to experience as the goal at that time was to have the boy seated on a metal ruler with sharp corners which would, without a doubt, break through skin when given enough time. But still, this wasn't hitting the boy, or punching him, kicking him or even sexually assaulting him.  
No. 'T was simple corporal punishment which was separated from abuse by a small thread. Though a thread nonetheless.

Eames leaned back in his seat, rubbing a hand over his face with a grunt, deciding on trying one more time to order the child with a simple vocal command.

“Sit on top of the ruler.” He repeated a bit stiffly, expression blank and void of the amusement he'd experienced only minutes before. The American stared back, blinking twice before his scowl deepened all the more.  
After a handful of seconds it became apparent that 'Joe' would not be obeying the man's simple demands anytime soon. So the colonel pondered, his sight traveling over the inward arch of the child's nose which had yet to grow into a definite shape. His nose, as much as his mouth were small, and his eyes as much as his ears were large to proportion. Everything about him screamed he had yet to reach puberty and though malnutrition often influenced the growth in children, Eames suspected this boy honestly was younger than he'd anticipated at first.  
However still, his darn stubbornness tossed these assumptions aside. This boy was more strong-willed than many people Eames had come across in his life.  
It took his breath away, were he to be honest to himself.

But he was a child. And young boys reacted well to being outright challenged.

Eames straightened up slightly, trying not to show the greediness in his eyes as he'd come up with a new tactic. Reverse, bloody, psychology. Always worked on young lads and air-headed men.

“I thought you'd be more of a man than this, though.” Eames vaguely began, eying his finger-nails for a second before reaching the hand into the breast-pocket of his button-up. 'Joe's' leer nearly physically hurt the colonel, but the latter allowed it, allowed the boy's agitation to boil to a heat that'd cook his brain to a puddle of impulsive stupidity.

He retrieved his fags, lighting one before tossing the pack and lighter on the desk. The thud of the metal zippo hitting wood was loud.  
As the Brit watched the boy's face closely through the haze of blue smoke, the child went through various emotions. Some of his anger had dispersed -apparently- and though he surely believed it to be well-hidden; the confusion on his features was highly readable under Eames' keen eyes.

Dark eyes roamed over Eames' face, traveling down a path to the man's mouth of which lips were wrapped around the cylinder shape of a cigarette. A quiet maintained, in which the colonel knew he had the boy in his hands, right there and then, and in which he could almost hear the little gears working within the boy's skull.

'Joe' opened his mouth, pausing, only to close it again. Eames leaned back in his chair, legs falling open and hands resting lazily upon the arm-rests, as he feigned receptive body-language to urge the boy to speak. For a moment he felt like the lion in the cave, awaiting the lamb's arrival in order to pounce on it, devour it.

What the boy had yet to figure out was that his worst enemy was more so himself rather than the Englishman in the room. The plotting so far was to plant a seed within the child's brain, allowing said mind some time to drown it into delusional assumptions which on their turn would gut-punch the seed into blooming so high and wide it'd steal all attention and care-giving from his pride and honor. His stubborn nature would likely not wither, but there were many tricks Eames could play to make it all go easier on the both of them.

“What-” The American interrupted himself with a cough, scraping his throat with a pinched expression on his face that showed the pain he was experiencing. Though his lungs sounded a dozen times better than they had in the beginning, the boy had still to heal fully. Again, Eames was in awe of the peculiar tone to this child's voice, an uniqueness that would make him recognize it in a mass of hundreds of young boys.

“What was that supposed to mean?”  
The false British accent was almost ridiculous to Eames' ears, but he did keep a straight face and tipped his head a bit sideways as if he were thinking about what the boy had asked him.

“You and I both know what I meant.” He lightly answered, shoving the butt of his cigarette in a nearby ashtray, hooking his legs before leaning back once more with hands folded on his lap.

'Joe' frowned, worrying his lower lip between small teeth. Eames' sight lingered on the nipping ivories before he sighed dramatically and got up.

“You see, if you were a real man-” Eames began as he paced around his desk, allowing fingers to slide over the wooden surface.  
“-you'd go through every second of punishment given to you.” Their eyes met and Eames raised a telling eyebrow. The boy remained quiet, though had drawn up his legs.

“But your sense of pride, which honestly is nothing more than childish stubbornness, gets in the way of that, doesn't it?” The Brit flashed the boy a patient smile, basically hearing the coin drop as time progressed.

“A man would take it.” He explained, his fingers falling off the wooden desk-top as he paced forwards towards 'Joe'.  
“A _true_ man, with guts, would gladly undergo any punishment and succeed. If only to rub it into the face of his nemesis that he is not so much as even bothered, that he is strong enough, yea?” The man continued prodding the child with tricky words as he crossed the room in slow, long strides, carrying him smoothly over wooden floorboards.

“A man's pride would crave the success. A child, on the other hand, would do just that which you are doing right now.” A pout was added to his last words, if only to agitate the young boy and lure him away from his self-control. 'Joe' moved a bit back when Eames came to a halt in front of him, bending over the child ever so lightly, causing his broad frame to cast a shadow upon the Yank's fragile being.

“You're a bit of a stubborn, little boy, aren't ya?” Eames smiled, speaking slow and soft so the kid had no choice but to remain quiet and focus all of his attention on catching the colonel's words which would sound even more demeaning in the breathed rasp. In slight awe, the Brit watched the boy's left cheek inflate as he bit it from the inside, obviously preventing insults to tumble from between his cupid-bow lips.

“Now...” The man's voice raised, as did his upper-body, and for a few more seconds he observed the yellow shades on the boy's face. The bruises were healing nicely and there no longer seemed a threat of permanent, visible damage. 'Joe's' eyes appeared wider now that the swelling had gone. His mouth, agape, was framed by lips which had yet to settle back to their natural fullness for the lower one still had to heal of the scabbed split in it.

“By the time I have seated myself at the desk, having turned around to face you; you will be in the exact position I have ordered of you.” It wasn't a question or so much as a request but a plain command. A long pause followed and though the boy's jaws clenched and his teeth started to grind, he still managed to surprise the colonel with a firm nod of his head. Albeit all this, the child still narrowed his eyes, producing a facial expression that flung the nastiest things that could ever be communicated without actual words at the Brit's head.

“Eyes down.” He added on second thought with a smug smile before turning on the backs of his heels and striding to his desk.

By the time Eames sat down and looked up, he was pleased to note the hint of a grimace on the boy's face as he was seated with knees upon the thin, metal ruler. His back was a straight line, hands folded together on top of his head and his narrow chest rose and fell in a slow, deep rhythm.

“Just your name and this part of the punishment will be over with. Albeit, I'll still have to discipline you for the disrespect and the rebelling you've practiced upon me ever since I walked into that room before so much as owning you.” Eames recalled, with not that little of glee, how the boy had stolen a few curious glances as he'd been stood at the end of the row of slaves. It had been rude, foolish, _intriguing_.

The American clenched his jaws, straightened his back even more and exhaled as eyelids fluttered. Eames didn't miss a single detail, observing the winces and hisses as the metal dug deeper and deeper into 'Joe's' knees by the simple cause of his light weight. It wouldn't be long now, Eames had tortured men many times before, knowing by experience perfectly well that there was no such thing like physical pain to get the tongues loose and ramble words he needed or simply _wanted_ to hear.

It took another ten long minutes of silence (excluding the groans and hisses coming from across the room whilst Eames continued with paperwork) before the American finally spoke... Though he didn't quite pronounce words which the Brit had wanted to hear.

“So. What kind of game is this, then?”  
Eames glared up from the papers on his desk, keeping a straight face as he heard an obvious Yankee lilt seep through the faked English dialect. Though others could've been fooled, the colonel would never. He was a proud Englishman after all; breathed and lived all that was his native land.

“You are not to speak unless told to or asked a question.” The Brit simply shared, watching how 'Joe's rose an eyebrow at the remark, daringly allowing his almond-shaped eyes to drill into Eames' lighter ones.

“Besides,-” He added, looking back down and scribbling notes on the file of an Indian man who currently was on the run with some rather important chemical compounds, belonging to Eames' military.  
“-this is anything but a game.”

The boy snorted at Eames' words, but moaned right after because the sound had caused his body to twitch, hence his knees had shifted and the ruler dug deeper into flesh. He doubled over slightly, the pain weakening his frame and though Eames' own knees phantom ached in sympathy, his smirk was that of sadistic amusement.  
He listened to another soft moan, his stomach warming at the sound even though he was aware in the back of his mind that there had once been a time this would've been considered proper child abuse... Yet, in this day and age -and especially so regarding slaves- physical discipline was no longer frowned upon. To the contrary, it was encouraged. It just so happened that a great percentage of servants were of young ages.

Still, Eames had never really wanted to own a pet or slave (a _human_ being). The Brit as well had lived on the streets as a young boy and he could still taste the bitter tang that accompanied a freedom within a world where being free came with a lot of risks and a ton of unfairness.

Nonetheless, being the Colonel of England's military as well as the right-hand of one of Japan- _and_ Britain's greatest leaders; Saito, he hadn't had a choice. The higher one's rank, the more you'd be obliged to have a human as a servant, if not as an object of sorts. It was expected of brutal, ruthless men such as Eames was perceived to be. He was infamous after all, any sign of weakness, of consideration would do badly not only for him but for the army and essentially Saito.

The leader himself owned various boys and girls. Most of them were above ages of sixteen, though this caused them to be more than 'just a pet' or 'just a slave' to the Japanese man. The colonel was aware Saito used some of his servants for sexual benefits, and the thought of this disgusted him to some degree. However, deep-rooted respect for the man and the fact that he owed his life to him did cause Eames to have biased opinions of him. Saito could do less wrong to him than others. Eames tolerated more of that man than he would his own family (had they still been alive).

Though the Brit had lost enough of his conscience in this fallen world to feel badly over such topics as one having sexual intercourse with under-aged persons, mutual consent was of importance to him. And whereas in the past kids had been kids and adults had been adults, now, boys and girls mentally reached adulthood at far younger of ages. Brain-growth aside, you had to grow up hard and fast in today's age... especially when being on your own, fending for your own, _fighting_ for your own. There was no time granted to you to remain an innocent child.  
There was no time for children at all, anymore.

Eames retrieved another fag from the pack of cigarettes and as he lit the stick he gazed back at the child who by now had lowered his eyes. His lips were thinned and a layer of sweat dampened his forehead, sticking strands from his bangs to the skin. The kid looked paler than he had mere minutes ago and his whole body trembled as he tried to bite back the pain that by now must've been assaulting his nerve-system.

Whilst taking a deep drag, Eames also could admit to himself that though everything that was taking place within these four walls would be considered 'wrong' by human morals, the sadist within was having a ball. Nothing got the man to feel quite as alive as being in charge -control- and breaking down part by part the human mind; manipulating them to his hand until it would prove a beneficial scattered mess for the Brit.

Perhaps it was the lack of spice in his life -personal life, that is-. He couldn't deny that owning a feisty, little American such as 'Joe' did heat up some things.  
And though Eames didn't plan to ever break this child's spirit, he did want to dominate it and have the child realize that a life of being owned by another man wasn't as bad as he believed it to be. After all, what was freedom in a society that would shoot mothers for stealing bread for their infants? A government that assassinated their own citizens just to make sure they kept the machine in line, greased and oiled and tall and proud for the enemy to lust over.

Eames had little doubt he'd provide the Yank with food, clothes, a warm place to sleep and even expensive medications to keep his health up. Only if the boy would return the favor. Only if he'd obey, if he'd be tamed, if he'd put up a fight but for the sake of entertainment for Eames -of course- wanted only to win and come out on top.

Though he was still rather annoyed by the arrogance and stubborn mindset of 'Joe', Eames still recognized himself in this boy. Perhaps even, had he been a young boy himself, he would've looked up at him.

The Yank moaned once again, his body starting to budge at last and Eames straightened up in his seat, shaking away thoughts and enjoying the show in front of him.

“I will not submit.” The child unexpectedly hissed, nose curled in disgust and his teeth bared in an instinctive -yet subconscious- snarl.

Again Eames' stomach flipped, though this time he wasn't sure whether it was because of his vain words or more so because of seeing the facade crumble, one small; arrogant particle at a time.  
Eames allowed his sight to travel over the young man's naked, slim body before locking eyes. He knew what the child was trying to cause. 'Joe' wanted to trigger a fight, a distraction so his body could finally collapse. The Yank was trying to get under his skin, wanted desperately to clash with the Brit in forms of a discussion that would take away his mind from anything but the physical pain coursing through every nerve.

Eames smiled around his cigarette, blinking slowly like a cat tended to do before resting his gaze through blue smoke on the prey's attractive features.

“Hush.”

 


	8. Part VI.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rewritten (August 2015)

**Arthur.**

 

Arthur, by now, had lost track of time. All he was aware of was that his knees were completely ruined and all he felt was the stinging pain jolting through his body as it fought against the endorphins to notify Arthur that his body needed to be taken care of right the hell now.

It was at this point that the child started to consider giving in and tell Eames his name. The problem being though, that he had not a clue over the fact of whether or not the man had been bluffing when he'd said he was aware of his _real_ name. Arthur had to weigh both options against the other now. He'd either tell him a false name, and get punished harder if the man had actually any knowledge of his real identity, if he didn't, he'd be satisfied with the name given to him and Arthur could laugh about the misinformation for as long as he might live to hear Eames use it wrongly unknowingly. Not to mention, this horrible punishment would at last be over with.  
Or, he'd tell the colonel that his birth-given name was 'Arthur'. It'd grant him the same outcome such as the latter one he'd described, however, his pride would be annoyed for weeks to come whenever he'd hear his name shaped by the Brit's filthy mouth.

He was so exhausted though. Arthur could feel the prickle in his nose and the itch within the corners of his eyes as his body tried to vent by means of tears. His body screamed for mercy, the pain becoming so persistent that he'd grown nauseas and had trouble breathing properly.  
What would be done wrong by telling the colonel his name? It wouldn't change much. After all, Arthur didn't have a background interesting enough to be nosing around in. His whole family was gone, there were no longer any loved ones left who'd suffer by any decision the kid would make that night or any other in the future.

Only he himself would. Suffer, that is.

His stupid pride would not allow Arthur a fully rational mindset. The boy couldn't stand the thought of Eames winning yet another round in this sickening game which the American seemed incapable of to win. He couldn't stand the visual image of a self-satisfied Eames, smirking at the name being shared with him. Most of all he could not stand the thought of hearing the name given to him by his parents spoken by a man indirectly responsible for their deaths.  
It was bad enough that the hints of Eames' aftershave sometimes caused Arthur to tumble into a split second of nostalgia. This Brit needed to stay as far away from the boy's past, present and future as possible.

Regardless, the pain was starting to get unbearable and he could no longer decide whether he'd prefer to lose face by removing himself off the metal ruler (and likely suffer even greater punishment), or lose honor by means of telling the colonel his name was Arthur.  
It was difficult to focus with a brain that could no longer think straight anymore. Arthur hardly knew what was up or down, good or bad, all he could process was the pain and how dearly he wanted to get away from it. He'd never been martyred like this. He'd gone through a lot of pain -emotional as well as physical- but the latter had always been brutal and instant. Never coming close to the hours-long ordeal the child had been suffering that same day.

“If I say my name,-” Arthur mumbled -Cockney dialect in place-, his voice airy as every breath he took hurt. Neither of them had spoken for longer than Arthur wished to recall and he hadn't noticed the constant sound of a pen scribbling on paper until Eames actually stopped writing in order to look up at him.  
“-will I be able to return to bed 'till tomorrow?”  
The least the child found himself to deserve was to be able to rest and recuperate once he got off the ruler. He doubted he could stand any more punishment for that day and Eames had not exactly told him they'd be done if he'd 'confess'.

“You will not speak unless asked a question or demanded to. The only words I want to hear from your mouth is your name. Not to mention... you are in no position to negotiate.” Eames accused in a soft, but stern, voice as he looked back down and continued writing.

Arthur licked his lips, snarling at the man who's eyes no longer were directed at him. The dismissal of his body-language lit up a spark of panic within the child. For a second he believed that he no longer had a chance, that he'd be sitting on the metal ruler for hours and days until his own weight would've driven the object through the bones of his knees. A preposterous thought, but a natural reaction when witnessing your only chance of escape from pain simply retreat.  
Sure enough, Eames was the enemy -always would be- but at this very moment he was the only shot Arthur had to get away from the misery he was experiencing.

He wanted out. He wanted out so badly.

Arthur's thoughts made his body shift and he loudly heaved a dry sob when his knees moved over the ruler.

“Joe.” Arthur lied, still incapable of obeying, still hungry for rebelling, longing to have something on this man so he could laugh in his hand behind the colonel's back. He craved something, anything to at least have some control over the life spent with the Brit. He hoped Eames would believe him, but even if he did not, Arthur still looked forward to being punched in the mouth by him. Being knocked out sounded like a blissful siesta right then.  
The length and dullness of this pain made him sick to his stomach, made him tired and emotional.

“I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that and let you try again. Pull another trick like that and you'll be sitting there all evening.” Eames warned though he didn't look up to regard the child across of him. Arthur watched the man work a toothpick between full lips, gnawing it and rolling it from one corner of his mouth to the other, tongue gliding against its sides to create momentum. A tightness pulled at Arthur's skin. A sensation which, at his young age, he could not yet place.

“Fine.” Arthur spat, annoyed at himself at how childish it had sounded. He glared up, meeting Eames' gaze which looked far more calm than the boy suspected him to actually feel, if the irritable rhythm in which he was tapping the back of his pen on the papers was anything to go by. The man smiled, blinking slow and lazy like a cat.

Arthur took a deep breath which got exhaled immediately in a grunt as his knees had bucked by the expansion of his chest. The child trembled, swallowed down the thickness in his throat, and blinked away the stinging sweat which had traveled from his temples into the corners of his eyes.

“A-Arthur... It's Arthur.” He whispered a whine, sucking bottom lip between both rows of his teeth and squeezing shut his eyes. With a grimace of shame and disappointment of self-worth, the American listened to the scrape as Eames backed his chair up.  
He rounded his desk, walked closer and closer and Arthur gritted his teeth, keeping his eyes shut even when the colonel had taken stance in front of him.

“Look at me.” He spoke with an almost soothing voice, the warmth of which made Arthur grow more nauseas. The child blinked open his eyes, tilting back his head, frowning at the pain that jolted through his body because of the new position. Eames, with hands folded behind his back and his legs standing spread, observed the boy's face in absolute silence. His toothpick was gone, as was his smile, but his eyes were darker evermore.

“Eyes down.”   
Arthur immediately obeyed, by this point nearly hyperventilating at the pain and the emotional stress he was being put through.

“Get up.”

The words sounded like a choir of angels and Arthur barely managed to swallow down the moaned relief he had wanted to breathe out. With trembling fingers upon the wooden floor-boards, Arthur carefully pushed his weight up and off the ruler, groaning and biting back tears. It took a full second before the metal object undid itself from the flesh on Arthur's knees, dropping to the floor with a loud clank.  
After an awkward wobble on his legs, Arthur managed to straighten up and experience the stiffness of his muscles and the drop in blood-pressure. Nonetheless, he still sighed in relief. The pain was still present but at last the pressure in his knees had been removed.

“That was rather tedious, huh?” The Brit said, shifting his weight onto one foot. The movement caused Arthur to bring up his shoulders, tensing.  
When Eames bent over, going to retrieve the ruler from the floor, Arthur almost couldn't resist the urge to back away, to hold out a hand just to make sure, to push him away. However, the boy was exhausted and the last thing he wanted was another fight with the colonel.

The man picked up the object before straightening back up. Arthur watched his large hands, fingers fumbling with the ruler, turning it around and rubbing the sharp edges, and grimaced when noticing how one of the colonel's thumbs discolored with a soft red. There was blood on the metal.

“How are the knees?” Eames asked him dryly as he rubbed the blood between thumb and index finger.  
Arthur clenched his jaws, refusing to reply to the question. Refusing to reply to the man who had just put him through this painful hell.

The colonel met his eye for a split second before looking down at the child's knees, tutting his lips.

“Look what you've done to yourself.” He murmured before going down on one knee and Arthur bristled.

“You did this to me.” The boy bravely hissed, denying he felt any fear when noting how Eames' shoulders tensed.

A short pause followed before Eames looked up at the child, frowning softly.

“No.” He shook his head slowly before continuing.  
“No, it is your misbehavior that has put you in this position. I granted you a reasonable offer, yet you still chose to be stubborn about it and go through with the punishment even though you could've prematurely ended it with one word.”

Technically Eames' words did make sense, they were logical for the current setting in which both of them were placed. However, when considering how it all had started, this was not Arthur's fault. The boy had not chosen to be this man's slave and hence had never chosen to be disciplined. This was not his doing. Arthur convinced himself, even though his brain was tired and eager to give in, that only Eames was to blame for his pain.

Eames watched Arthur's face closely and the boy wondered if he could read his mind on his features. It was likely, for when the American opened his mouth, inhaling to form words, Eames tutted.

“I advice you to not talk back to me. Swallow that pride, Arthur.” His voice was layered with warning and his eyes glazed with threat. The boy, though eager to just launch himself on this man and rip out one of his sternocleidomastoid muscles, snapped his jaws shut and narrowed his eyes.

Eames kept his eyes on him for another few seconds before looking back down at the boy's knees. Cupping himself with both of his hands, Arthur had to collect all of his willpower to not back away when Eames reached out slowly. He stared down at the top of the man's head, noticing the breadth of his shoulders even more from the bird perspective.

He still jolted when Eames' fingers cradled the back of his left knee. His skin was as hot as Arthur's, the touch burning him instantly.

“Did that hurt?” The colonel asked as he glanced back up to meet Arthur's eyes. The boy didn't believe, for one second, that the worry on Eames' features was sincere.

“No.” He muttered, taking advantage of how Eames hadn't used the 'eyes down' command for quite some time now and thus dared to observe every crowfeet, every laugh-wrinkle, every pore of the man's face. There was a scar on his eyebrow which prevented hair growth at that particular location, causing a narrow vertical line to part the outer end of his left brow.  
Eames smile was lopsided, the toothpick bopped at the curling of his lips, before he looked back down at the child's knees.

“So, I startled you then?” The boy had no clue where the man was going with this conversation but he replied anyways, even if to distract his pounding heart from its fuel from anger.

“Yes”

The Brit hummed at the American's reply, nodding absently as he leaned closer to the child's left knee.

“You allowed this to go on for far too long.” The man mumbled more to himself than to Arthur, though the boy still caught his words with a bitterness on his features.  
He brushed his thumb over the side of his knee and Arthur stiffened at the sensation, swallowing down a mewl as his body was over-sensitized by the torture he'd gone through. The simple stroke of a finger pad over tender skin caused many unpleasant shivers to roll down the child's spine.

“You need to learn when to back down and when to embrace that stubbornness of yours. There's a time and place for both of those, after all.” Eames lectured him gently and Arthur just cringed as the man brought up his left hand to cradle the boy's other knee as well. The heat nearly caused Arthur to buckle, but he inhaled and stared at the wall across of him, pin-pointing his vision on a particular spot.

“The only thing you achieved with waiting so long is that, one) you wasted both our time and two) you royally messed up your knees.” His words, though gentle, were as accusing as the heated grip he had on the backs of Arthur's knees. The boy didn't like this. His heart thumped loud and fast and his stomach seemed to be somersaulting within him.

“Do you understand what I am saying?” Arthur looked down as Eames looked up and their eyes met for a couple of seconds.  
The child hated the man for doing this, for toying with his emotions and mind like that. He knew the Brit was manipulating him into believing that HE was the good guy and it was Arthur's own fault that he now had 'royally messed up his knees'.

Nonetheless, the colonel had a point. Arthur truly should learn to shove childish pride aside when it came to events such as these. He just wished he would not have realized so because of this savage. However, still, he had not asked for this, had not had a choice when being shipped off to this man of the army.

“Yes.” Arthur replied bitterly, raising his chin so he could leer at the man through half-lid eyes.

“Yes whom?” Eames asked as he let go of the boy's knees and rose. Arthur daringly kept his eye and it took him a long minute of swallowing down bile of anger and fatigue before he was able to reply.

“Yes... sir.” He murmured, though uncertain if this had been the man's request. Going by the grin that flashed over Eames' face, he was spot-on. With the tooth-pick clenched between his teeth, Eames reached out and patted the boy's naked shoulder a tad too harshly.

“Good lad.” His tone was mocking and before removing his burning palm from the child's knobby joint he vertically flipped the toothpick in his mouth, opened lewdly wide to allow the stick's manipulations.

“Let's go take care of your knees, yea?” The colonel offered, turning on his heels before pausing in his tracks once more.

Arthur proudly straightened his back and his cheeks burned with agitation as he caught the man's glance cast over a broad shoulder. His sight flickered over Arthur's scrawny frame for a split second before he murmured.

“Eyes down.”

* * *

 

 

“Tell me what you're thinking.” Eames' voice was calm, even more raspy as it slurred around the cigarette between his full lips. His right eye was squinted in order to prevent smoke from stinging it.

They were in the bathroom. Arthur was seated on the closed lid of the toilet bowl with a ragged blanket draped over his lap as Eames was positioned on the floor in front of him. The man, legs crossed in Indian position, was currently disinfecting the wounds on Arthur's knees, hands working nimbly. The heat from the man's thigh radiated through the fabric of his pants into the sole of Arthur's foot which rested on the muscle for support.

“Why?” Arthur frowned softly, his brain a tired mess of haziness and mellowness. The exhaustion caused his state of mind to be calmer than ever before when in the presence of the colonel. He didn't want to go as far as claim that he felt at ease, because paranoia and suspicion were the child's second nature, however, nonetheless... now was the calmest he'd felt in quite some time.  
Perhaps having been in pain for so long had exhausted all of his will to fight. He just wanted to rest.

“Because I want to know what goes on in your mind.” The Brit replied matter-of-factly before removing the cigarette from between his lips and tapping the ashes into the bathtub to his right.

“Why?” The boy repeated, growing even more suspicious of the man's words and intentions attached to them. Arthur curled his fingers into the blanket on his lap and watched Eames rumble through the first-aid kit on the floor next to him.

“It's not a trick-question. I'm not going to punish you for sharing your thoughts with me, however rude they may be. Especially now that I have requested to hear them in the first place.” The man raised a meaningful eyebrow at the boy before he retrieved a small tube from the white box.

“You didn't ask me.” Arthur accused quietly before he had time to second-guess his words. He held his breath, stirring as he awaited the Brit's reaction.  
However, contrary to the child's apprehension, Eames did not throttle him to the floor for the rude tone to his words and instead poured some clear ointment onto his index-finger. Not a single sliver of agitation was present on the colonel's face which again was pinched as his eyes squinted in concentration as well as to prevent the blue smoke from stinging them.

“I didn't?” He asked after a moment, holding Arthur's calf firmly to prevent him from moving away as he gently rubbed the salve onto the wound of the child's knee.

“No. You demanded for me to tell you... You didn't ask me.” The boy whispered uncertain, hissing and jumping when Eames' finger pressed a tad too harshly onto the wound. He wondered if he'd done it on purpose or not. He chose to believe that yes, Eames had.

“Ah... old habits, innit?” Eames smiled, teeth bared wolfishly as the butt of the cigarette got pinched between canines. Arthur wasn't sure if the man's explanation was for Arthur's words or for the fact that he'd pressed his knee just now. The man pulled back, distracting the American from his own thoughts, and lightly tapped the instep of the foot on his thigh.   
Arthur retreated his leg carefully, already feeling the stiffness to it, before placing his other foot on Eames' other thigh.

“Why am I not being disciplined for talking now?” Arthur asked, watching as Eames paused in the tapping of ashes into the bathtub. Eames' lips pursed in thought as he stared at the tiled wall to his right before resuming his previous position with the nicotine stick back between his teeth.  
The boy was confused about the vague rules having been set up for him. Though he doubted Eames to be a man of his word, he still tried to find a life-line which to hold on to to prevent this man from annihilating his existence. Were he to believe Eames' demands, he was not to speak unless asked a question or demanded to. Sure, he had done just that, Eames had demanded a reply (subtly so) and had asked a question here and there... But this felt too much like a conversation rather than an interrogation, which confused the boy.

Eames huffed, grunting right after as he blinked the smoke from his eye. He plucked the cigarette from between his lips and flicked it into the bathtub next to him.

“We're not having a session right now.” Eames replied, rubbing his eye before dabbing a small cotton ball drenched with disinfectant on Arthur's wound. The American hissed at the sting, keening in the back of his throat whilst he instinctively tried to retrieve his leg from the pain. However, Eames had a firm hand planted on the boy's foot, trapping it successfully against his muscular thigh. The simple strength behind just a single hand caused the hairs on Arthur's nape to rise in warning.

“A session?” Arthur asked, his voice embarrassingly high because of the bite of anti-septic.

“Punishment.” He murmured, though continued when gazing up at the boy and noticing his blank stare.  
“You see, though I expect respect and politeness at all times, I do not desire of you to be a spineless rag-doll at all times.” He smiled as if amused before continuing to work on the boy's knee.

“You only want a spineless rag-doll when I'm being punished?” The child frowned as the back of his mind was shouting at him to shut up and stop interacting with this man. Eames deserved anything but the boy's attention. He should solely ignore the colonel and/or fight him. He should not at all allow the warmth that seeped from Eames' palm through his instep into his stomach to settle his anger.

“Something like that.” The Brit chuckled, glancing up. Arthur looked away immediately, jaws clenched, a flush of embarrassment rushing to his cheeks.

“So?” He breathed, leaning forward a bit and squinting his gray eyes as he perceived the injury in front of him.

“So?” The boy repeated, his brain slow and foggy with fatigue.

“So, what are you thinking about?” This time he did form the sentence as a question, his words patient whilst he plucked a hair from the wound on Arthur's knee. The boy grunted under his breath.

“I'm thinking about kneeing you in the nose.”

A long pause followed and for a moment Arthur feared he had just been a bit to honest, and with it, had signed his early commitment to his grave. But then he jumped as Eames threw back his head, laughter roaring through the small room. His laugh was peculiarly hoarse and sounded far more genuine than Arthur tried to believe.

When Eames caught his breath, his eyes lingered on Arthur's and the child noted how much more alive they looked all of the sudden, a spark added to them. His lopsided grin was mischievous and unsettling.

“Though I appreciate the sassiness, I would not advice you to collide your already wounded knee to my thick skull.” The colonel chuckled his words as he looked back down at the boy's injured joint. Whether or not the mentioned thickness of his skull had been self-deprecating or not, Arthur still chose to agree with the man mentally.

As Eames continued with the treatment of Arthur's wound, the boy still expected to witness the colonel's mood change. He still expected a backlash, a trap, anything to invalidate the genuine amusement he'd displayed only moments ago. Arthur wasn't comfortable about having pleased this man and wished dearly he had feigned his appreciation of Arthur's deadpan comment.

The child had been taken completely off guard by having seen this man's face reshape with laughter. It could've been quite contagious had they not been who they were. Eames had appeared younger, far less threatening as well and Arthur got confused more and more with the second as the rush in his bloodstream refused to settle, instead optioning to darken the skin of his cheekbones and bridge of his nose into a blush.

“There we go. All set.” Eames spoke after another long moment of silence. Arthur had been so wrapped in his own thoughts he had not even felt the man treat his knee with ointment.  
Arthur pulled back his foot, watching the Brit getting onto his feet. He put away the first-aid kit, washed his hands and then paused at the door as he went to leave the bathroom. The colonel glanced over his shoulder at Arthur who was still seated on the toilet's lid, still feeling flustered and out of it.

“Let's call it a night, yea?” He offered, waving a hand and smiling slightly. The calmness of the man pissed Arthur off to great degrees. He scowled.

“Wasn't there more punishment?” Arthur questioned, Cockney dialect out of place because of his exhaustion. He mentally beat himself over the head when translating his own words back to his conscious and his mouth snapped shut so suddenly that his teeth clacked.   
Eames' tipped his head sideways and his smile deepened for a split second.

“Oh so eager.” He murmured, raising his eyebrows meaningfully as he leaned against the door frame, ankles and arms crossed.

“We will continue tomorrow. Now you go rest. Come.” Eames beckoned him over with his fingers.

Arthur's sense of anger flared up at full blast in no time. Not only at the man but more so at himself for having spoken to him in a manner that had been conversational rather than insulting. Why had he acted so weak? Why did he _feel_ so weak? Why had he allowed himself to spend half an hour in this bathroom with this brute of a human being, talking as if Eames had not claimed him as his slave. As if Eames hadn't dragged him by the hair, hadn't grabbed him by the nape to push him around, hadn't had him eat naked on the floor like a damn dog. As if this man had not just put him in a corner for hours and then made him sit himself on a metal ruler to the point where the boy's knees had been damaged so harshly that he was sure he'd forever have marks left on them to remember this horrible time in his life.

Arthur knew, yet didn't want to admit it to himself, let alone this man, what it was that was going on.

Arthur was aware that he was but a young boy who had lost his parents at a far too young of an age. He knew he hadn't spoken with a person in years, except for the occasional clipped conversations with fellow street kids he'd trusted enough to not tattle on him, and this because he'd had better blackmail material on them than they did on him and his false muteness. Arthur knew, very much so, that no matter his strength, his pride, his independence, there was still a part left within him that hoped for one day to be cast in the glow of hope. There was that thought, that seed of an idea that had been awaiting for its time to grow and at last accept that hesitant glee for better days, for an actual future.

It was a part of him he'd bravely shoved away a long time ago. It was necessary if willing to survive in this day and age. In this war there was no room left for trust nor dreams.   
He couldn't believe that hours of physical torture and a few friendly words could've fooled his subconscious into being at ease to some degree. It was outrageous. Ridiculous. So damn childish of him!

“Silent treatment again then?” Eames woke Arthur from his self-deprecation and as the child looked up he could see there was no more gentleness left on the man's features. He no longer chose to display the falseness of kindness on his stupid face. Which was fine for Arthur, for now he could think clearly once more, could tell himself that nothing had changed and his future was as non-existent as it had been thought to be only an hour ago.  
His teeth grind together, muscles of his jaws jumping under his skin before at last the boy got up from the lid. He groaned at the stiffness of his limbs and the ache in his knees.

He'd spoken too much already. He'd been too subdued. Too cowardly. Arthur was not ready to forgive himself for this and in order to repent he had to continue with his earlier reasoning. This man was the enemy. Eames was the enemy.

The boy followed Eames into the bedroom, limping every other step.

“On the pillow.” Eames commanded with his back turned to the boy as he rummaged through one of the dresser's drawers. Arthur lowered himself awkwardly on the pillow, blanket still hugged against his pelvis. The moment he sat down on the soft cushion he felt the full-on damage of his exhaustion and a yawn immediately fell from his lips.

“You'll be restrained for the night.” Eames began and Arthur stirred as he watched the man turn around, holding a long red rope.

“Consider this part of your punishment so I won't have to spend as much time on it tomorrow.” The man explained, walking towards Arthur as he allowed the length of the rope to glide through his hands.

The boy's mind logged off, his brain empty and his body sore with injury and awkward muscle-usage. He stared, not really processing what his eyes were witnessing, at the man who squatted down in front of him.

“We'll secure them in front of your body rather than behind you. Present your wrists.”

On auto-pilot Arthur stretched out his arms, watching how Eames swiftly looped the red rope around the pale skin of his wrists until they were knotted together. The man tugged the restraints, checking if they were secure enough, before curling a finger between rope and the sensitive wrist of the boy. Arthur stirred minutely at the contact which felt oddly intimate.

The moment the man got up Arthur allowed his body to unceremoniously drop sideways on the pillow. He was too tired to pull up his blanket higher than above his waist, optioning instead to allow his eyes to flutter shut. He needed to crash, he needed to allow his anger to simmer overnight so he could unleash it first thing tomorrow when he was rested. He promised himself he'd get vengeance... Just... Just sleep, first.

Though he felt Eames' hands on him, he was too spaced out to do anything but crack an eye open just to make sure the man wasn't planning on attacking him. Instead the colonel maneuvered Arthur's body more comfortably on the cushion, carefully stretching his legs a bit to allow his knees to heal overnight, before making sure the blanket reached from Arthur's toes to his chin.  
When he pulled away, the American once again closed his eye of which the sight was too blurry anyways, and listened distractedly to the thumps of Eames' footsteps as he moved across the room. The leather of his shoes creaked.

“You did well today.” Eames spoke from somewhere in the room. Arthur's skin crawled at the words as well as because of his annoyance for being kept awake.

“Hey,” The colonel's voice interrupted the images flashing on Arthur's inner eyelids as his mind was already half delusional with fatigue though his body was being kept aware of his surroundings.

Something pressed against his ribs, making the boy wince and peer through his eyelashes up at the man who stood towering over him, hands in his pockets, the toe of his right foot nudging the kid to consciousness.

“Did you hear what I said?” There was a frown to accompany the annoyed tone of his voice. Arthur nodded once, his head weighing tons. He didn't notice his shoulders had been hunched in apprehension until Eames removed his foot and Arthur was able to relax his body once more.

“Once the punishment's over, tomorrow, you'll get a treat, yea?”

Arthur's brain stuttered to a halt before crawling back up to an awake awareness at what had just been spoken to him. Was this man for real? Was this man seriously telling Arthur that once he'd tortured him even more that he'd get a- a... a treat? A present? What did he expect to happen exactly? An act of forgiveness from Arthur's side? A sense of appreciation? A taste for infatuation?

The child pushed up his weight awkwardly with his tied wrists, leaning on his right elbow as he squinted up at the man with a scowl.

“A treat?” Arthur asked, his voice raspy though thickened with disbelief. Eames didn't miss the arrogance to the American's tone of voice, if the frown on his forehead was anything to go by. Arthur tensed visibly as he clenched his jaws.

“Hm.” The colonel nodded.  
“When fulfilling your punishment we can start over with a clean slate, yea? So, a treat, I find, is in order. Good behavior on its own will also, of course, be rewarded.”

Bewilderment sucker-punched Arthur's sleep in the guts and his jaw dropped as he stared up at the man who looked far too pleased with himself. He could not decipher the reasoning of this Brit. Did he expect a 'thank you' from the boy? Was he truly believing Arthur to be grateful of a damned Englishman having strutted into his life, captured him as a slave, robbing him from his freedom, simply because he'd get 'rewarded' for good behavior?! It was preposterous to think this man actually believed he'd ever be able to tame this child, to manipulate him into believing that Eames was the good guy, that he only wanted the best for Arthur. He could not be for real, Arthur nearly barked a laugh though managed to keep his face passive, aside from the dropped jaw.   
What a fucking joke.

“You're full of shit.” Arthur hissed at him, snarling, though his body still tensed immediately after he'd spoken, ready to recoil.

Eames quirked an eyebrow at that and Arthur could almost literally witness the flare in his eyes, widening the pupils. With clenched jaws, the Brit inhaled loud and deep through his nose before exhaling with a hum that promised nothing but immediate death.

Though the child grew more frightened with the second, he still didn't break eye-contact and didn't move a muscle when Eames squatted down next to him. So long he could stand up to this Brit, chin raised, he did not have to admit to himself how scared he actually was. What's the worst that could happen? A beating? Big deal.   
Arthur's mental task of psyching himself up got interrupted brutally the moment Eames reached out to him.

The boy gasped when Eames grabbed a fistful of his black hair, yanking his head back quick and hard enough for Arthur to feel his brain thud against his skull. He pulled him up slightly, forcing the American to hold on to his underarm with both of his restrained hands. Arthur's eyes were pinched closed and though it hurt his pride he was too scared to open them and witness what must be a man resembling a raging bull or perhaps the devil himself.  
His lips were sealed shut tightly to try and hide how out of breath he was because of his pounding heart.

“Look at me.” Eames whispered- no, _hissed_.   
Arthur could feel his eerily hot breath fanning out on his face, letting him know that the man was even more up close than he'd expected of him to be. It only made him want to keep his lids shut even more, though he doubted this man wouldn't spoon out his eyeballs if that'd be what it'd take. With great embarrassment Arthur could feel his body trembling.

Eames clenched the fist in Arthur's hair even tighter and the boy choked on a whimper before finally opening his eyes. His immediate reaction, when noting they were nose to nose, was to pull away, which was absolutely impossible for the man's iron grip on him didn't budge whatsoever.

“Let go of my arm.” He continued quietly. Arthur vaguely realized that he'd never been more scared of a voice, no matter how loud, than this man's. The child's fingers were cramped as his nails had dug deep into the skin of the man's arm. He slowly dropped them down, trying to find leverage on the floor to push himself up to the man's hand and release some of the stinging ache that came from Eames carrying his weight by his hair. However, he was too high up, only his right hip resting on the pillow.

“Now, you listen here, you filthy Yank.” The Brit hissed and Arthur's eyes widened impossibly more at the realization that this man knew he was American. Since when? Had he forgotten the Cockney lilt when insulting him earlier? This could absolutely change everything. Americans were nothing but dirt to the English, and the same vice versa.

“You're either going to be grateful for the time I am planning to spend on you and for the life I have been inclined to grant you,” He paused, watching Arthur's eyes closely before continuing.  
“-or we're going to play dirty and have one of us end up with a snapped neck.” Once again he tightened the grip on Arthur's hair, raising him higher so their noses touched. The awkward crane of his neck was starting to hurt, his head pulled back so far that he couldn't even swallow as his esophagus was stretched out too far. The boy's eyes squeezed shut as he gritted his teeth.

“And I believe you know bloody well who's neck would be snapped.” Eames growled, voice low and never any louder than a whisper. Arthur would rather have this man shout at him for seven days straight than have to listen to another hiss from him ever again. He resembled too much of a predator, all instinct and bad intentions.

Though his heart pounded erratically fast, deafeningly loud in his ears, Arthur still heard the man clear as day for his nose traveled from Arthur's over his cheek to his left ear. He exhaled slowly, as if toying with the apprehension Arthur was obviously suffering.

“Is that understood... Arthur?” He asked, purring his name in the most condescending tone manageable, causing Arthur to desire to curl into a ball or heave his stomach up his throat. If not both.

The first thought Arthur had, which had been granted by his rational survival-instinct, was that he should reply with a 'yes' and get it over with. However, his pride budged back in the picture, shoving safety and precaution aside and shouting at Arthur that it'd be wonderful to spit in this man's face the moment he'd loosen his grip on his hair.

Though, with Eames likely having no plans to let go until he got an answer, Arthur went for option three which was plainly fueled by a death wish.

“Fuck off.” Arthur venomously whispered as he opened his eyes to glare into the man's gray ones which were now so close he could not focus on both at the same time.

There was a beat of silence in which Eames squinted minutely. His mind seemed to be working over-drive and Arthur wondered if this would be it. If this would be how he'd die. By the hands of the enemy.

He didn't know what to expect when he noticed the wrinkles around his eyes deepen, a glance down showing the boy that the man was smiling an ugly sneer. All Arthur was able to do was to take a few labored breaths and stare at him wide-eyed as he awaited whatever would be thrown at him. His future, quite literally, rested within Eames' hands.

The colonel nodded, eyelids fluttering while he looked away for a moment as if he had just agreed to a proposition in his mind. When the man's hand loosened its hold on Arthur's pitch-black hair, the boy allowed a stuttering breath to pass his lips.

The Brit released him abruptly, causing the boy to drop back down on his pillow, gasping for breath. His broad frame unfolded from its earlier squatted position as he rose to his feet. Arthur watched the man turn around and walk away.

The kid only experienced confusion and anxiety the moment Eames left the room after he'd turned off the light. Victory and pride were not at all present within him at that very moment as he was left alone in the dark. A sense of doom weighed down the atmosphere and Arthur grew nauseas as he was convinced he'd dug himself deeper into his metaphorical grave.

Albeit his earlier exhaustion, Arthur did not manage to catch any sleep for the following three hours. Instead he spent them over-analyzing what had happened, staring in the direction of the door though the room was pitch-black, expecting the Brit to return at any given time to knife his guts out.

The young boy attempted to figure out the reasoning behind all the man had done and said so far. He tried to figure out who this man was, what he was. Even more so, Arthur tried to find a clue as to what it was that Eames wanted of him.  
The American still went by his own beliefs that one) Eames was mad for power. Two) he was a control freak and wanted everything to go his way and no other. And three) his emotions flared from carefree to vicious within a second.

A perfect recipe for absolute chaos.

As far as desires went, the boy expected Eames to want him to listen and not talk back to him. Unfortunately enough, even after being as scared as he'd been mere hours ago, Arthur would never lean that way. It collided against everything he believed in and all that he'd fought for.  
For the sake of his parents and his American pride, he could not- and would not give in to this sick man. No matter how scary he'd get, no matter how badly he'd hurt Arthur. He refused to be humiliated and being toyed with like that ever again without putting up a fight beforehand.

However, his greatest fear was that Eames would actually manage to do just that.

Arthur grimaced as he brought up his legs, the wounds on his knees opening, though his power to embrace himself was too great to consider the physical strain.

He absolutely feared that Eames would break him and mold him into an obedient pet. The boy had felt his control slip multiple times since he'd been here.   
There was nothing he could do. He was stuck down here and would never be able to escape. Arthur only could partially decide upon how his time would be spent with the man.  
Were he to obey and keep his mouth shut, perhaps he'd be able to live a semi-peaceful life alongside him for as long as the latter would want to keep him.   
Then, were he to rebel, such as he'd done before, Eames would make his life miserable. It'd be filled with punishment and discipline until the child would either be broken or would cross one line to far and have his life strangled out of him by the man's own hands.

Hence, as he laid on the pillow and underneath the warm blanket, he realized that his own contradicting thoughts were not a good sign whatsoever. This went beyond pondering... He was doubting. Everything.  
His confidence currently rode a vicious roller-coaster where at the peeks he believed he could rebel until the day he got killed and at the lows he very much knew that if he'd give in, everything would go easier on him.  
Well, except for his conscience and pride which would continuing to gnaw at him till the ends of time.

Arthur had never doubted himself like this before. He'd been confident with his every thought, he'd been self-assured and had known exactly who he was since the moment his mother had been murdered.

He was a survivor, seeking vengeance. Not a victim.

To witness this Brit prancing into his life and immediately knock him off his socks was eerie to say the least.  
It assured the child that Eames wasn't someone to play foolish tug-o-war games with. He couldn't expect to push him around and have the outcome be in his favor.

Yet, that was easier said than done.

 


	9. Part VII.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rewritten (September 2015)

**Eames.**

 

Eames left Arthur on his own for two full days. Only on the first morning had he sent a soldier into the room to rid Arthur of his restraints so he'd be able to move around and use the bathroom which was directly connected to the bedroom. However, no matter the luxury of being able to attend to his personal hygiene as well as relieve himself, the child did not receive any food or human interaction whatsoever. Only the ticks of the clock on the wall behind Eames' bedroom desk were to accompany the child, mocking the boy with showing exactly how little, yet how much, time was passing by. Slow and unavoidable.  
Had Eames wanted to mess with the child even more, he could've had all sources of make-shift light removed from the bed- and bathroom. Being trapped in complete darkness, with only the ticking of time to prove to you you were still very alive and very alone, was something that could easily drive a person mad when done long enough.

Nonetheless, Eames did not desire to ruin this child. Not exactly.

The technique of punishment was one that had been well thought through. It was getting apparent that disciplining the child by means of violence and intimidation wasn't working that well. Unlike what Eames had believed at the start, this boy's young age did not at all make it easier to shut him up by simply scaring him by pointing out the differences in their age, their ranks on life's ladder, their physical strength and mental capacity.   
On the contrary, Arthur's juvenile brain only seemed more brave and proud simply because it was still so unaware of what could happen to him and more so what could be succeeded were he to adjust and obey. Or the kid just didn't care whatsoever. After all, he was alone in this world and apparently had been for quite some years. What did the child have left to fight for and survive for? Eames had suspicions but could not be too sure.

Locking the boy up on his own allowed him to finally take a look in that mind of his and figure out for himself that if he'd act to Eames' commands, his life would be that much simpler and gentler. He needed to submit to this man in order to go on in life and the colonel could only cross his fingers that this new technique of punishment would bring out the child's rational side.  
Not only was this Yank ridiculously proud, but his sense of honor was uselessly pathetic, to say the least. Eames didn't care much for those clenched jaws or that raised chin of Arthur's and even grew annoyed at the stupidity in his stubborn nature.  
Though there was something disarming about his childish spirit continuing to fight for nothing in particular, Eames found himself to be a tad too old to put up with a sulky, little boy.  
And though Eames enjoyed to always come out as the winner whenever Arthur decided to act like a brat, he as well desired dearly for the American to give up on the fight even if only for a day.

He needed to reprogram the child's brain. Wipe away that filthy American pride from his conscious and soak it instead with Eames' rationality. Feisty but clever. Not stubborn and thoughtless.  
The difference between the child and Eames was that Arthur would fight every and all battles, hoping to win, whereas Eames chose battles he knew he could and _would_ win.

Hence, leaving the boy on his own with no food or medication but enough freedom to use the bathroom to his likings, was bound to have the American reconsider his own prideful rebelling. It was a step into making him doubt himself and the further this self-consideration went, the easier it'd be for Eames to influence it.

He'd taken away from the child enough to have him remember he was being punished. No matter the luxury around him, Arthur was still being disciplined, being controlled and trapped by Eames. But it could've been much worse and hence the child should reconsider his opinion of the colonel which right now, Eames suspected, must be quite unadulteratedly gruesome.

There was a squeezing sensation in the back of the man's mind, choking some of his conscience into remembering that he was toying with the emotional well-being of a human specimen. Arthur, no matter his American roots, was but a child who'd lost his family and his innocence because of the war grown-ups were fighting. He, like so many others, did not deserve to be thrown into the crossfire of others' mistakes and greed.  
Sure, Eames knew this, realized this, but his own lost childhood reminded the man who'd saved him and raised him. He would never be able to betray Saito. Arthur would never hold more meaning to Eames than the man who'd given him a second chance at life. Not that different from the chance Eames was now granting Arthur.  
England's leader might be a merciless man and he certainly took part in shady business-handling to which Eames would always turn a blind eye because he simply could not support it. However, Saito was Eames' guardian and the Brit would spend a life-time repaying him for this.

The Brit was convinced that there'd come a day in which the child's eyes would finally open into seeing Eames wasn't the monster he had thought him to be. He'd see that Eames, as well, was just another life trying to survive in this war. Arthur would see that Eames had not been meaning to steal his freedom but had still chosen to make the best of it nonetheless. Sooner or later when he'd go from child to adolescent, perhaps Arthur would embrace the comfort and lack of abuse Eames had brought into his life.  
He'd give in to the colonel, the latter did not doubt this, It was all simply a matter of time and Eames could be rather patient when he thought it to be worth it.

Ironically enough, Arthur was more safe here; within the enemy's lairs, than he'd ever be above ground amongst his own kind.

All of these were facts the Brit could share with the young boy by words alone but it'd not work that easily. It was Arthur who had to translate the honesty that was present within Eames' intentions. Yet, the kid would not be ready, nor willing, to pick apart the deeper layers of the relationship he'd have to build with the Brit.

But, he had hope. Eames knew, from experience, that being in solitude truly messed with the mind. If you over-thought every little aspect of your current life, you could easily end up on a road where you'd have no say in which way was right or left. Wrong and good would intertwine. You'd believe your own lies and disregard your own truths.   
It was the best technique to scrape someone from their own identity and start over with a fairly clean slate.

Eames wasn't sure what Arthur had come up with in only two days of solitary confinement, but he was sure it couldn't get worse than before. After all, the kid was a bright one, though intelligence had gotten hazed by foolish pride. If mentioned haze would've evaporated only a tad in the past two days, well, Eames would be even more hopeful he could work with this boy and mold him to his desires.

For a split second Eames second-guessed his own premonition. After all, he'd handled the child hard-handedly multiple times by now. He'd not only been violent but as well had humiliated the child. There was always an anger present within the colonel. It lingered somewhere deep, had probably been planted there early on in his life and by now it was too thoroughly rooted within him to ever get rid of it. It was this rage that so easily boiled to the surface whenever Arthur hit the wrong nerve.   
The Brit was aware of the dangers this brought along with it for he could see himself hurting the boy much more than he'd initially would ever intend to. He'd lost himself in a blood-red fury before when he'd been but a soldier and it was something that had stuck with him ever since. It scared him to a point for it was uncontrollable once released.

Hence, this as well, was a great reason as to why Eames needed to train this child quickly and why he needed to keep violence out of it.

Eames shook himself from his thoughts accidentally by nipping too harshly on his lower lip which had been worried between his teeth for various minutes.  
He tutted himself for having had his mind distract him so before finally blinking back up from his feet and regard the closed door in front of him.

It was nearing seven in the evening and Eames was not only tired but as well apprehensive of whatever would lie behind his bedroom door. Perhaps 'apprehensive' was the wrong word to use. Excited came closer to it.  
The man squared his shoulders, tipping his head to each side in order to pop his neck (a sensation that always managed to make his skin crawl but was necessary were he not want to wake up like a pretzel one unlucky morning), and retrieved a key from the breast-pocket of his loudly printed button-up.

He unlocked the door, not taking time to knock for he'd be damned to request entrance into his own bedroom, and unceremoniously strutted inside.

Arthur's presence was lacking at first glance. The bed was still made, not to Eames' surprise as he was convinced the boy would rather sleep on glass-and-rusty-nails-covered-concrete than in the bed of the enemy. The pillow at the furniture's foot-end had obviously been slept in, crinkled as it was, and after touching it gingerly with the tips of his fingers he could feel the heat on it. Arthur had not left that long ago.

After closing the door behind him, Eames perked his ears as they caught the distinct noise of a running shower, water splattering and boiler buzzing.  
He smiled to himself, glancing over his shoulder at the bathroom door which had been left ajar, a strip of light reaching over the floorboards towards the side of Eames' left foot. It seemed to beckon him and as he turned towards its direction, Eames noted how neatly the toe of his shoe fitted in the light's breadth.

Without conscious thought, the colonel walked closer until he came to a halt in front of the bathroom door, gently nudging it open with the tip of his index-finger. The movement caused it to creak, but the water that cascaded over Arthur's body would have been too loud for him to catch the sound. And indeed, the boy did not show any sign of having heard the Brit's entrance.

Instead he stood, unaware, in the bathtub. His right hand busied itself with quite violently moving his toothbrush left to right and up and down in his closed mouth. His eyes were shut to prevent water from irritating them, and his left hand was splayed against the tiled wall in front of him. He was leaning heavily and Eames was sure that the child must've weakened a bit over the past two days.

Positioning himself a bit more comfortably by leaning a shoulder against the frame of the opened door and crossing his arms, Eames allowed his eyes to roll over every inch of the boy only a few feet away from him.  
The boy bathed himself almost methodically. He wasn't humming a song, wasn't taking his time, and certainly wasn't going easy on his skin.   
Eames watched, with a slight frown, as the pale child scrubbed his skin inch by inch, harshly enough to have it redden. The boy's face was squinted into a grimace and it was quite obvious he was in physical pain, his teeth dug firmly into the plastic of the toothbrush still in his mouth.

Eames recognized the emotional aspect within trying to rid your skin of all the dirt you felt on you so thickly it'd weigh you down. Eames wasn't a stranger to it and in moments of stress he caught himself on washing his hands too often and too long, trying to get rid of the blood that had been spilled over them.

However, no matter recognizing the unhealthy coping mechanism in the boy, Eames did not stop or interrupt the child and instead continued taking in the nude form. Arthur's skin was still covered in bruises, though many had vanished or discolored to a more gentle yellow. When he removed the brush from his mouth, spitting toothpaste into the tub before tilting his head back into the shower spray, Eames leered at the bruises on the boy's throat. Knowing that a few of those finger-shaped blemishes had been caused by his own hands made the colonel's skin crawl.

It was a half-arsed sense of shame for he'd not felt too uncomfortable when he'd tugged the child's hair quite harshly only two days prior. However, that had been the child's own fault, had it not? The boy had blatantly insulted him, more than once, and had gotten under the Brit's skin in no time. He'd genuinely agitated the man and he'd known it. He'd asked for it, almost.  
Whereas when he'd squeezed Arthur's nape in the first night they'd met, it'd been done to intimidate him, it had been done to show the child immediately who was boss. This was good enough of an excuse to Eames as to why the bruises on the boy's nape bothered him more than how he'd nearly scalped the child by gripping his hair.

There was a lie hidden in there somewhere, but the man wasn't willing to dig it out.

As he watched Arthur open his mouth, allowing water to fill it before gurgling to rid his pallet from the minty paste, Eames tried to recall the anger he'd felt two days ago.  
He'd been terribly rude and ridiculously disrespectful. But, once again, there was a more understanding side to the colonel which forced him to place himself in the kid's shoes. Had he been in Arthur's position he doubted he'd done anything differently.  
The Brit was still a stranger to the child, still an intruder and the thief of his freedom. He was a man with the nationality linked to his number one scape goat. A nationality that strode against his American honor.  
The boy needed time, and that was all there was to it.  
The boy needed a chance to see that Eames wasn't a monster, but neither could he expect this man to mother him. Not only did Eames need to keep some kind of animosity between them to prevent a bond to develop, but more so did he need to keep Saito in mind. He was the colonel of England's army and Saito would snap his neck were he to allow an American to live a comfortable life alongside the English.

The boy was a slave, a pet, and ought to be treated as one. Not to mention; act as one.

Eames knew all of this, sure, but still a grimace pulled over his features.  
With a sigh he brought up a hand, pinching the bridge of his nose between squinted eyes. A headache had started brewing because of his own self-tortured thoughts, yet it did nothing to lure his sight away from the boy.

Though Arthur had ceased his violent technique of ridding himself of at least one layer of skin, he wasn't any gentler for his own scalp as he rubbed shampoo into his black hair. It wasn't as if he were in a hurry either. On the contrary, the child seemed to lack any sense of urgency as he massaged the white foam deeper into his roots. But he was rough with it. As if he held a grudge against his own brain, trying to hurt it by practicing pressure upon his skull.

Eames would've been more bothered by the signs of the child's self-disgust if it weren't for the distraction of his lean body, stretched and bowed into an arch. His skin almost seemed to be translucent in the bright bathroom light which reflected off of the water that covered every inch of him.

Once Arthur has finished the task of washing his hair, he remained standing in the middle of the tub, head tipped back and eyes closed as water splashed down on him. Eames deliberately ignored the length of his throat as it craned and exposed every inch of its vulnerable flesh.  
He appeared almost annoyingly peaceful now that he'd finished scrubbing himself from whatever mental filth had been smothering him. However, no matter the expressionlessness of the child's features, it did not hide the stiffness in his shoulders or the tightness of his clenched fists.  
He had to be pondering, at the least. Eames would not believe Arthur wasn't going absolutely bonkers after two days without a sign of the enemy. He _had_ to be on edge, surely?

With an expression that could be considered close to a pout, Eames waited patiently for the child to notice him. Arms and ankles crossed, he leaned more heavily against the doorway's frame, making himself comfortable.

It took various minutes before Arthur finally dipped his chin to his chest which expanded as he inhaled deeply. Eames could see the slow sigh being breathed rather than hear it. Blindly, the boy reached out to towards the faucets, his movements stiff and awkward because of a disorientation that came along with eyes squeezed shut as tightly as his.  
Eames couldn't help but smile when the boy jumped, hissing as the temperature had either dropped or increased before at last the spray stopped cascading the American. The silence, after having stood here for so long in the noise of the shower's water bouncing off tiled walls, pressed against Eames' ears.

Arthur frowned deeply when he couldn't find the towel which apparently had been slung over the tub's edge but had slipped down onto the floor some time ago. The boy patted the rim rather aggressively, creating loud thunks, before giving up and instead rubbing the knuckles of his index-fingers in the corners of his eyes.  
Eames watched the boy blink away the remainders of wetness around the edges of his eye-lids before leaning over the tub's edge, scowling deeply at the off-white towel lain in a harmless heap on the floor, as if it had offended at least five of his ancestors, if not the whole family-tree. He bended over, one hand gripping the side of the bathtub tightly, securing his balance, as his free arm stretched in order to reach the fabric.  
With his body bowed so deeply Eames could see the child's shoulder-blades stick out, pressing against his skin so sharply that if he'd not known better, the colonel would've feared for the bones to break through the skin and reveal a morbid set of useless wings.

He frowned at the mental image, blaming it on his lack of sleep and his too close of an affair with Whiskey.

Though the Brit was still a tad upset with the child and was planning to continue disciplining him that same evening, he couldn't help but chuckle under his breath as he watched Arthur dry his own hair roughly. The towel curled and flung every and each way, pitch-black strands of hair standing out like ink against the lightness of the fabric. It was endearing, for some reason, to see this boy so incompetently taking care of himself whilst blissfully unaware of being eyed by the Brit.  
Unlike Eames, Arthur had not yet learned to feel presence as if by a sixth sense. It reminded Eames of the jealousy he'd felt when noticing how easily and deep Arthur was capable of sleeping. For all of his animosity and fighting spirit, he was absolutely daft at sensing threats and foreseeing danger. Perhaps it was because of his young age. Eames wasn't sure how the pattern of a brain's growth happened exactly, but he did know children had a rough time at looking forward, apprehending consequences, imagining outcomes. They lacked all experience to base fears upon.

Still, with a past that surely had had to have been gruesome, Eames expected more paranoia from this child.

Watching the Yank dry his body so carelessly, whereas he'd cleaned it so thoroughly, made Eames' fingers itch with a desire to do the job for him. Though the kid would not appreciate such an effort, it would still have to be considered as helpful -if not nice- and this was at least one of the reasons as to why he should do no such thing.  
No mister nice guy tonight. Arthur needed to step down from his bloody throne and figure out that Eames was not to be messed with.

Even with how much his anger had dissipated over the last two days, Eames found little effort in recalling what had happened and relight that agitation to fuel his desire to discipline and punish this young boy. Though the Brit's anger often did not last long, especially not over the stretch of multiple days, it was dangerous and explosive while it lasted.  
Had the man stayed with Arthur back then, had he not recollected his wits and demanded himself to get away from the boy whose neck had looked deliciously breakable, well... Eames wasn't sure what would've happened, but it would've been likely to have ruined the little sense of safety he'd built up by now for the child to experience.

Again, he did not mean to abuse Arthur. Far from. But the kid needed to learn to work with him for Eames could not promise a positive outcome when having his nerves hit one too many times.

Arthur needed to be a good boy, even if only for a day, so he could truly see how much this would mellow Eames' mood and soften his behavior towards him. The Brit had a hard time doing the 'bad guy' act unless provoked. His soft-spot lied within being in complete control, being respected without a sliver of doubt, to have his commands followed without hesitation.  
Were Arthur to do this for, let's say, a full day... Eames knew he'd melt right into it. And Arthur would at last see the grand difference in Eames' demeanor, simply by adjusting his own behavior.

“Jesus!” Arthur more so gasped than yelped as he swatted a hand to his chest and stumbled backwards, his back colliding against the wall behind him with a loud thud.   
Eames, though shaken from his thoughts unexpectedly, did not change his expression of absolute blankness.

Various seconds ticked by as the boy remained leaned against the wall, both of his hands braced against the tiles as his chest rose and fell in quick breaths. His eyes were wide and dark and even more so unmoving as they stared holes into Eames'.  
Again, the man was struck by his beauty and he subconsciously scowled as his eyes followed the towel which slumped off the boy's head onto a bony shoulder and down at his feet in the tub.

It was apparent that, when after Eames had quirked a brow at the child and pushed his weight off the frame, Arthur was frozen in place. This on its turn proved to Eames that he had indeed gone a bit bonkers over the past two days and had probably filled his mind with fearsome expectations for his capturer's return.  
Going by the stiffness in his small body and the effort he put into trying to calm his breathing, Eames suspected that Arthur was expecting to be physically assaulted.  
He mentally smiled at that, glad to see that his believes of breaking a person by the means of solitude, had once more been accurate. It had worked.  
With this new fear in the young child he could start building a more kind relationship with him. Eventually that frightening leer would dissipate and Eames would be left with an obedient child who trusted his master to treat him rightfully.

That _is_ what Eames wanted, right?

Eames exhaled in a huff, beckoning the boy with four fingers as he turned around to exit the bathroom.

“Get dressed and follow me.” His tone of voice must've let Arthur know he was not in a mood to argue or repeat himself, for the child crawled out of the tub before the man had finished his sentence.

Eames waited for him in the bedroom, idly traveling his fingers over the top of the dresser, collecting a bit of dust. Keeping rooms clean, when built under the soil of the earth, was tedious to say the least. Eames narrowed his eyes in thought, wondering if he should start having this boy clean the place weekly.

A scrape of the throat lured Eames' eye over his shoulder and he watched Arthur for a few moments. His sight lingered on the dip of the child's throat where his collar-bones met, spotting two drops of water left on his pale skin. Perhaps having the Yank clean his rooms wasn't such a good idea, if his poor job of drying himself was anything to go by.

Eames hid his grimace behind the curve of his shoulder before turning to face the child. He shouldn't have done that, though.

He felt his determination crumble when taking in the innocent image in front of him. Not only was the boy's skin flushed by the hot shower he'd taken, cheeks pink and lips blood-red, but as well had the boy optioned to wear clothes of Eames.  
It was a cheeky thing to do, snooping around in Eames' closet to retrieve something to wear, but then again the child didn't have any clean clothes left of his own.

The colonel was far from mad. It was absolutely disarming to see this skinny boy swimming in a grown man's clothing. He indulged in the way his shirt drooped low and wide around the boy's throat, his left shoulder threatening to escape the collar any second now. And though Arthur had been smart enough to choose a pair of trousers with an elastic band in them, Eames could see that three knots were not enough to secure its position above the child's navel. The legs were rolled up, but the soft fabric wasn't an easy one to manipulate and the colonel knew -probably before Arthur did- that he'd be tugging and pulling and correcting his wardrobe all night.

This time he could not hide his smile and didn't miss the surprise in the child's eyes.  
Well, shit, there went the bad guy act straight out the bloody door. The colonel summoned back a dark scowl before turning on the heels of his shoes.

“Come.”

For unknown reasons Eames enjoyed the pat-pat sounds of Arthur's bare feet as they moved across wooden floor-boards. The sound was so much more delicate than the loud clacks of Eames' Oxfords. It matched their personalities well.

The kid's body-language, tonight, seemed rather passive, which pleased the Brit to a great degree. However, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up in attention and suspicion, expecting the kid to act out any minute. Nevertheless, the path towards Eames' office included no incidents whatsoever.  
He pushed open the door, flicking on the light before moving aside to wave the boy in. Arthur, bless him, did just so, albeit his hands were fisted in the fabric of his trousers, keeping up the legs, one of which had already unrolled itself.

As Eames closed the door behind the Yank, he began his monotone speech, filled with commands, no room left for negotiations.

“Tonight you are not allowed to speak unless asked a question or commanded to. When you speak you are expected to address me with 'sir' at least once in every other sentence.” Eames paused to let his words sink into the child's brain, before he continued as he paced towards his desk to the left.  
“You are not to initiate any eye contact whatsoever, again, unless demanded to.” He brushed passed behind the kid, noticing smugly how Arthur pulled up his shoulders at the closeness.  
“You will follow my every command tonight as this is a session of discipline. I do not want to hear a single peep out of you. Any disobedience will be corrected by physical punishment, _immediately_. Not only will you be hurt, but there also will be time added to the original session which we'll begin in a few minutes.” Eames concluded before sitting down heavily on his seat behind the desk, stretching his legs to hook his ankles.

Arthur was still standing in the middle of the room, his left side towards Eames. His head was dipped and there was a nervousness about him which showed in the fidgeting of his fingers, still curled in the dark fabric of his trousers, as well as in how he'd worried his lower lip between teeth.

“Again, a great deal of today's duration will depend on how well you'll work with me, Arthur. Be a wise boy.” Eames added only a lilt of teasing to the last part, already having figured out that Arthur very much disliked being addressed as a boy, or child for that matter.

“Any more questions?” The colonel queried as he folded his hands on his lower belly, leaning back and regarding the kid through a half-lidded leer.

“No.” Arthur's voice was incredibly soft, raspy even, and Eames had to inhale deeply for a second to calm down whatever it was that was brewing inside of him.

“No, whom?” Eames asked, observing how the boy's little nose curled up in a scowl as the gears in his brain shifted and turned.

“No, sir.” Arthur clarified between clenched teeth, an anger darkening his features and Eames tutted at the condescending tone to his title.

“Not like that. Try again.”

The pause that followed stretched to minutes and though Eames was annoyed at how long it was taking this child to follow orders, he still enjoyed to see him fighting himself. Arthur tried a few times, opening his mouth but then snapping it shut a mere second later, not spilling a sound.

“No, sir.” The Yank repeated, this time succeeding in keeping any emotion from the lilts.

Eames didn't praise or scold him, instead optioning to stay quiet for a handful of minutes, watching the boy squirm and wondering what kind of thoughts were going through the Yank's mind at that very -tense- moment.  
He inhaled deep and loud, shifting in his seat and watching how the boy's shoulders pulled up almost simultaneous to his own movements.

“In front of you, against the wall, is a wooden chest. Go over there.” Eames lightly commanded, leaning his chin on his thumb as his middle-finger curled in front of his lips, whilst the index-finger rested against his cheek.  
His gray eyes followed the child who moved slowly towards the direction pointed out for him. When stood in front of the chest, his head tipped slightly side-ways and Eames could see the interest in the Yank's eyes as he read the names on the spines of the books. The shelves were attached, above the chest, against the wall, the lowest of them reached to the boy's chin.

It took another few seconds before Arthur's head lowered, looking down at the objects placed upon the chest's lid. A frown wrinkled his face.

“Pour me some tea.” Eames said simply. He was looking forward to having a cup of Earl Gray, prepared and delivered to his office by no other than Jack only moments ago. His timing had been spot-on and Eames promised himself to give the lad some praise before the week was over.

Arthur took his sweet time in staring at the vintage kettle, the flowery pattern and golden trim of which matched the porcelain cup next to it. He rolled up his sleeves which reached to his wrists though only below the elbow when Eames wore it, before picking up the kettle and carefully pouring the steaming liquid into the cup.   
Eames listened, and watched, for any sign of Arthur's hands trembling. But there were none.   
Surely he had to be nervous? Eames scowled at the lack of fear present in the boy's set of shoulders and hence optioned to remove his chin off his hand and instead drum his fingers on the wooden armrest of his chair.

“Do not spill.” He added to his impatient tapping and smiled when seeing the boy freeze for a split second. His spine straightened and his shoulders pulled up as they often did in an instinctive maneuver to protect his vulnerable neck.  
However, the Brit's smile fell when Arthur continued pouring, his hands not shaking and not a single drop of tea to land anywhere but in the small cup.  
He was slightly proud of Arthur, but much more annoyed.

The boy placed the kettle back on the chest and when his hand hovered over the small bowl containing cubes of sugar, he hesitated into a pause. The colonel was curious as to what Arthur would decide. After all, he hadn't a clue about how Eames liked his tea, nor was he allowed to speak without permission.

Though the tension was thick, Arthur maintained, and didn't move until Eames spoke after various long moments. Arthur had passed one of the many tests.

“No sugar. Only a tad bit of cream.”

The American obeyed, his hand moving from the bowl to the miniature pitcher only half-filled with the white liquid which had become expensive over the past decades. Milk was a luxurious treat, such as fruits were and even more kinds of meat. Animals were nearly as scarce as exotic fruits. The blame to this was not only the mass-slaughtering of animals in the far past, but more so because of the various plagues that had spread over the world, infecting the creatures and deeming them no longer consumable.   
Nature had killed off the majority of animals on the globe, taking them away from the humans who'd been breeding them beyond humane nor sustainable amounts.

Arthur poured cream into the tea without spilling and once more awaited any further command.

“Swirl.” Eames lazily added and watched Arthur stir a small spoon in the cup.  
“Remove the spoon.” Again, he obeyed flawlessly.

“Bring me the cup, with its saucer, as well as the ashtray and lighter.”

Arthur's steps were careful, his eyes locked on the tea cup to make sure he'd not spill it and his feet sliding more so than stepping to prevent tripping over the trousers' legs. The colonel turned in his seat, planting both feet on the floor and allowing his legs to fall open, his fingers still rapping a slow rhythm on the armrest.   
He was slightly impressed. These sessions of discipline were never intended to be difficult exactly. More important was the teaching of manners, the drilling of obedience and the humiliating into submission. For any other slave this might've been a walk in the park but Eames knew -and not only because he could feel the child's seething anger smother the room- that this was taking a lot from the Yank.

When Arthur came to a halt in front of him, Eames took a moment to observe his features. His hair was absolutely wild now that it had begun to dry, the bangs covering his eyes as he dipped his chin. Eames recalled their first meeting with a sense of amused nostalgia. Though this time the colonel was pretty sure the child wasn't glaring at him. Perhaps at the man's feet though... Quite likely.

Eames leaned back in his seat, the wood creaking underneath the weight, as he replanted an elbow on one of the armrests and once more resting his chin on curled fingers.

“Place everything on the desk.” The man murmured as he brushed the knuckles of his middle-finger over his lips, pondering about his next step.

The boy obeyed sweetly, though Eames feared for a split second that the kid would drop the cup of hot tea straight in his lap. No such thing happened, however, and instead Arthur carefully disposed of the objects. His stomach grew warm for a moment and Eames confirmed to himself that he was an absolute sucker for obedience.

“Come here.” He spoke softly, allowing a more gentle tone to slip into the words, as he turned his chair a bit.

Arthur's eyes flickered up for half a second as he tried to read Eames' intentions on his face. Still, he looked back down immediately and Eames smiled behind his fingers. The Yank only took two steps closer before stopping in his tracks and Eames had expected as much.  
After all, did this not resemble asking the lamb to walk into the lion's cave?

“Closer.”

Arthur didn't move for a long while and Eames could hear him swallow multiple times in sync with the clenching and relaxing of his fists. Still, Eames decided to be patient for this part... After all, he'd done a pretty good job so far and he deserved to be cut some slack.

His chest fell as he exhaled before finally taking another few steps forwards towards the man's spread legs. There was an odd expression on Arthur's face. Seemingly a mixture of emotions roaring inside of him. Eames was pretty sure that the child was being torn between wanting to turn around to run away and a desire to roundhouse kick Eames in the face, or worse; a storey lower.

“Closer.” He repeated softly.

Arthur took a shuddering breath before biting down on his bottom lip which thankfully wasn't split anymore, only a little scab left.  
Whether it was the boy's pride challenging him or simply an impatience towards what was in store for him, this time he kept moving until his legs were framed by Eames' knees.

Eames felt the heat of Arthur traveling through the fabrics of both of their trousers until the insides of his knees burned.

“Good.” Eames praised with a nod before he straightened up in his seat. His suspenders pulled taut over his shoulders with the movement of uncoiling his body and revealing its actual size; so much larger than the child's skinny frame.  
Arthur stirred visibly but did not move away.

“Good boy.” The colonel couldn't help but compliment Arthur's efforts once more, for good measure. He looked up at the boy who towered over him only a little now that the Brit was seated, and tipped his head to the side, trying to catch Arthur's eye. Amazingly enough the kid didn't fall for it and just kept staring absentmindedly at his own bare feet framed by Eames' brown Oxfords.

“How are your knees?” Eames asked him, having seen the raw state of them when he'd been in the shower.

“Fine.” The Yank whispered, his eyes fluttering close and the corners of his mouth pulling down in a flash of a grimace. Whether this was because of the lie, the memory or because he was growing disgusted at the close proximity between them, wasn't clear to Eames at that very moment itself. Not that it mattered, not that night.

It took Arthur a few moments of silence before he finally caught up with his mistake and Eames watched him flinch. His lids opened once more and this time he glared at the floor.

“Fine, sir.” He corrected himself, exhaling slowly right after.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

Eames nodded, having given Arthur the chance to notify him of the poor state of his knees, which could've earned him some painkillers at the least. It seemed like that little amount of stubbornness would have to be beaten out of him at one point in the future, though not literally so.  
It would take the boy some time to see Eames as not only his capturer but as well his care-taker. If he was hurt, Eames was the only person he'd be able to go to, no matter how much this might disgust him. Sooner or later the child would reach out to him, would need his help, his support.

The man's eyes lingered on the boy's waist right in front of him, hidden beneath the thick fabric of Eames' blouse. The bagginess did nothing to hide how small Arthur was and Eames felt a desire to wrap an arm around the child's middle to press it against his face.  
It was an odd thought, an odd craving to be experiencing and though Eames denied any presence of sexual attraction to this boy, he was still aware that his fascination was misplaced at the least, inappropriate at the most.

The Brit exhaled quietly through his nose, squeezing his hands into fists to regain composure before speaking. His voice was steady when released, no one would ever hear the turmoil from its owner in it.

“Mind lighting it?” Eames waved a cigarette in front of the child before putting the butt of it between his lips. He leaned back again, needing to put some distance between the heat he swore he could feel streaming off of the child's body in heavy waves. The scent of soap, washed clothes and scrubbed skin didn't help either.  
The boy smelled so... So pure.

Arthur eyed the desk to his left, reaching out to retrieve the silver zippo lighter and awkwardly opening it by using both hands. His fingers, such as his limbs, were long and lean, especially considering his young age which more often than not would be accompanied by some chubbiness. Perhaps, in an other life, Arthur could've been an artist, or maybe a writer.  
Not in this life though. It was too late for that, his future already written for the most part.

Eames watched the boys profile, his skin golden because of the illumination from the dirty light-bulb dangling farther in the room. His black hair glistened exceptionally healthily and as Eames lowered his gaze to the nape of the child's neck, he felt a near-wild urge to grab a pair of scissors and get rid of the long strands resting on the back of his neck.  
Before he could consider such a thought, though, Arthur had turned his upper-body back to face Eames, chin dipped once more.

A bit awkwardly, Arthur brushed his thumb over the little wheel to spark up a flame. He managed after only one try and then slowly stretched out his arm towards Eames. Not unlike his earlier fear to have hot tea dropped into his lap, there was now a split second of dread at the thought of how flammable his trousers might actually be. Eames had a sneaking suspicion they would lit rather easily, rapidly, and he couldn't suppress a cringe at the thought of having his bits burned off.

However, once more, Arthur did no such cruel thing and instead held the flame in front of Eames' cigarette. Eames leaned a bit forwards, taking a few drags from the fag, successfully lighting it. Smoke rose in front of the man's face, momentarily blurring the sight he'd set on Arthur's features.

The young American closed the lid gingerly, apparently scared to burn himself, before placing the metal rectangle back on the desk with a soft thud.

“Step back.” Eames murmured and Arthur obediently took a few steps away from Eames so the man's legs were no longer framing those of the boy.

“Sit.” Was his next command as he scooted his chair so he could seat himself properly behind his desk, his left side now facing Arthur. The colonel hooked his ankles over one another and leaned heavy elbows on the wooden top, effectively looming over the paperwork in front of him.

Arthur lowered himself a bit awkwardly onto the floor, sitting himself down on his sore knees and resting his bum on his calves. Eames watched him from the corner of his eye, noting with satisfaction how the child still had his eyes lowered to the floor and even had politely placed the backs of his hands upon his legs. His back was straight and a sense of jealousy stung Eames' pondering over how Arthur had learned that this was the exact position in which a slave would present itself.

“Where did you learn that?” He couldn't help but ask. The boy visibly stiffened.

“Learn what, sir?”

“The command 'sit'.” Eames clarified, acting nonchalantly by writing down on the papers in front of him, though his sight kept wandering to his left.

“Someone told me.” The boy's voice was hesitant and Eames wasn't sure whether this was because he was lying or feared to bring another human being into this ' _game_ '.

“Sir.” The Brit murmured, reminding Arthur he'd forgotten to address him as such.

“You said to say 'sir' in every other sentence, _sir_.” There was definitely mock to be heard.  
“Didn't you?”

All the warmth and calm he'd felt only moments ago, dropped right back into that icy pit within his stomach. Eames clenched his jaws, aggravated over the child's arrogance and with a sigh he reached out towards the child next to him. Arthur flinched violently though he did not pull away when Eames rested two fingers on the crown of his head.

“On all fours.” The man murmured calmly.

The boy swallowed audibly as he got reduced to the obedient, nervous and frightened slave he'd been earlier that night. His movements were stiff as he positioned himself on his hands and knees, head drooped low and revealing the little bump of the top of his spine. Eames observed the fuzzy hairs on his nape before reaching out and grasping the bottom of his shirt.  
Arthur remained eerily still as Eames dragged his shirt higher up his skinny body, letting the heavy fabric fall over his head so his eyes had no choice but to stare at the floor beneath.

Making sure his chair creaked, Eames reached out towards his cup of tea, lifting it from the plate underneath. He rested the bottom of the cup on his wrist, deeming the temperate to edge on painful, before turning in his seat.

“Arthur, it is in your best interest to not move. Try not to flinch for you could end up in greater pain.” Eames warned calmly as he reached out the cup towards the boy's naked and bruised back. Arthur, being too proud to admit the apprehension he surely was experiencing, exhaled slowly.

The man leaned forwards, deciding to first rest the palm of his hand between the child's shoulder-blades to remove some element of surprise. Arthur was blinded by the heavy fabric surrounding his head and arms, and sure enough jumped at the touch as he had not seen it coming.

“Ah-ah. See, I almost spilled it over your back.” Eames lied, having a firm hold on the cup in his right hand.

“Deep breath, Arthur.” Surprisingly he obeyed and Eames watched, transfixed, how the kid's ribs shifted beneath his pale skin.

“Hold it in.” The colonel continued to soothe the child, his thumb brushing over soft and hot skin almost absentmindedly.

“Now exhale and do not flinch.”

The American's exhale was shakier than his inhale had been and Eames swore he heard a muffled whimper when he placed the hot cup between his shoulders after having slid away his left hand.

“Very good.”The man murmured, strangely excited with watching the kid on all fours, being quiet and still with a steaming cup of tea placed high on his upper-back.

Eames leaned back in his seat, tapping ashes off his cigarette into the ashtray on his desk, and crossing his legs next to the boy. A foot perched in the air, bopped up and down rhythmically, his ankle rotating, knowing that the boy was able to sense to proximity of Eames' foot somewhere next and above his head.

“This is punishment, Arthur. This is not part of the disciplining session, which will be lengthened because you've acted up, such as I had warned you about before.” Eames spoke around a drag on his cigarette. He peered through the smoke at the child at his feet.

“Do you know why our session has been interrupted with a moment of punishment?”

Arthur didn't reply at first and Eames noticed how his fingers, splayed on the floor-boards, had curled in order to dig his nails into the wood. His knuckles were white and going by the ripples in the tea, some of his muscles were trembling.

The man gently placed the toe of his shoe against Arthur's side in a warning.

“Do not make me tip the cup.”

This seemed enough of a warning to shake Arthur into action and at last he replied.

“Because I was talking back at you, sir.” His voice was soft, muffled by the shirt over his head and by the carefulness in which he expanded his lungs to breathe out words.

“No, not quite.” Eames frowned a bit, though removed his foot from the kid.  
“Never, ever question me.” The colonel replied for him, warning the Yank with a strict voice, making sure to have it layered with the promise of physical pains were he to act up in the future.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me why you're being punished.”

“Because I questioned you, sir.” His voice was monotone, his brain likely too focused on the burn between his shoulder-blades, though by now the heat must've dissipated greatly.

Eames finished his smoke and his cup of tea, still placing it on the boy's back even though the temperature had decreased. Only when Arthur's arms began to tremble did Eames remove the now empty cup from his back, revealing a red circle in his skin, and command him to sit back up like he had earlier.

Arthur's hair appeared even wilder -if such a thing was possible- once his blouse dropped back down to cover his body. His cheeks were red.

“We'll continue with the discipline now.” Eames informed the boy who surprisingly enough still managed to keep his attitude and rage in check. It was remarkable, really. The colonel expected an outburst at any given time though he hoped the night would continue as well as it had been going so far.

“Hold up your hands and form a cup with them both.”

Arthur did so, and Eames placed his ashtray neatly in the kid's hands. He could see the boy's nose curl in disgust, not at all used to the smell of burnt tobacco and paper.

“Stay.” He smiled, savoring the appalled expression on the boy's face. Priceless, truly.

The colonel turned back to his desk, continuing to work on the tedious accounting and ignored Arthur beautifully.

Throughout the session Eames felt Arthur's eyes on him from time to time, but chose to ignore the glances as long as they did not transform into blatant stares. Let him see the man putting him through such humiliation.  
Whenever he'd tap ashes into the ashtray Arthur was holding up for him, he noticed the disgust and intrigue on the boy's features whilst he glared at the colonel's fingers. He couldn't decide whether he was amused by the child's poorly hidden expressions, or annoyed by them.

Idly the Brit wondered what was going through Arthur's mind. Did he truly grasp the embarrassment of serving as furniture to Eames? Or was he rather grateful, perhaps surprised, at the lack of cruelty that came with being disciplined?

No matter the child's thoughts, the night was still young and Eames promised himself that he'd succeed in starting the deterioration of Arthur's walls before tomorrow arrived.  
The boy would cave to some degree. The boy would let up to some degree. He'd open up, perhaps he'd break down, either way something was going to give and it would not be Eames.


	10. This Charming Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder to keep the many warnings in mind; this story contains Dom/sub relations, troubled minds and a tad of fictional racism amongst many others.

 

  
**Part Nine.**   
_\- This Charming Man -_

When Eames made Arthur move on from holding his ashtray and cup of tea to sitting beneath the desk to polish the Brit’s boots still on his feet, the American thought to himself that everything could’ve been much worse.

Granted it was rather tedious and embarrassing to serve his enemy with such practical tasks, but Arthur told himself that he could currently have been going through a beating or more intimate abuse. Besides, after hours of being in the same room with the man with no words spoken and no initiating threat to be spot, the boy could almost say he had relaxed a bit.

Still in the back of his head, as he polished the black boot resting in his lap, Arthur knew he was spending ‘quiet peaceful’ time with a man who had also shoved him around and punished him thoroughly before. Nonetheless, even with his suspicious mindset, Arthur believed for Eames - to some degree - to not bother him as long as he did what he was told.

And that’s what he did.

He cleaned the shoe that rested heavily in his lap, after he’d spent hours holding the Brit’s belongings whilst seated next to him on the floor as Eames had done paperwork, and allowed his body to relax.  
His mind had zoned out mostly, knowing that the only thing that needed to be done was whatever Eames demanded of him and for the moment Arthur could accept that he didn’t need to think for himself… It didn’t matter anyways, there was no escape, it was better to go with it and avoid any more physical punishment as he’d gone through before with the ruler.

Arthur brushed one last time over the toe with the small sponge before releasing his grip on the ankle and pulling back slightly, considering his work in the dimness underneath the desk.

“Done?” Eames spoke from somewhere above him.

“Yes, Sir.” Arthur replied numbly and watched Eames pull his foot back before turning in his seat so he could inspect his boot in the light of the room.

“Good job, Arthur. Have you done this before, then?” Eames asked as he hooked his ankle over his knee, his fingers nimbly stroking the loops that held laces. Arthur had cleansed and revitalized every little nook and crook of the leather. The job had been excellent to distract him from the current setting and he’d taken as much time as he saw fit - after all, Eames had told him to do it properly no matter how long it would take -.

“No, Sir.” Arthur said as he subtly hunched his shoulders and leaned a bit forward so he could peer from underneath the desk to watch Eames. He only ended up seeing the man’s lips and the tip of his nose. The boy’s stomach flipped unpleasantly as he saw the soft smile on the man’s handsome face.

“No?”

“No Sir, I-” The boy bit his tongue as he’d almost started to converse with the man who now busied himself with turning back to the desk and maneuvering his other foot onto the boy’s lap. Arthur’s long fingers gingerly guided the man’s foot towards him.

“Go on.” Eames said as he continued working on the dozens of papers and files on his desk. Arthur gnawed nervously on his bottom lip, not certain if this was a trap or not, as he began cleaning the boot with a damp cloth.

“I like detailed work, Sir.” He mumbled, wrapping fabric around his index finger to he could poke in between the creases of the boot’s tongue.

“Shoes in specific then?” Though Eames was writing down notes somewhere above Arthur, his voice did sound fully attentive and even a tad interested.

“Specifically clothes, Sir. Though I pay attention to detail in about everything that I do.” Eames hummed.

“Perfectionist?” Arthur couldn’t help but smirk at the word. His mother had scowled it and cooed it at him multiple times before.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Makes sense.” Eames mumbled and with that ending the conversation. Arthur focused back at the work in hand and it took him ten minutes less to finish polishing Eames’ left boot than it had taken on the right.  
Eames once again praised him for his work with a ‘good job, Arthur’.

After a couple of minutes of sitting beneath the desk, caged by Eames’ long limbs, the man finally leaned back with a huff.

“Bloody hell.” The Brit muttered and Arthur watched how his arm rose, probably to brush a hand through his brown hair. Eames had been working practically non-stop for hours and Arthur couldn’t grasp how much paperwork a Colonel really ought to do.

“Well, since you’ve been such an awfully good boy, we’ll get you some food before continuing, yeah?” Eames rose then, his chair creaking in protest before the cheap plastic seemed to sigh with relief at the lack of weight as the Colonel stood up.

Arthur’s tummy grumbled in agreement at the Brit’s offer, though he wasn’t looking forward to any repetition of how his previous meal had taken place.

“Have a seat, yeah?” Eames waved a hand to the chair he’d been sitting in, before he walked around the desk. Arthur gingerly crawled from underneath the furniture and pulled himself onto the chair in front of him.

It was odd to be granted a seat other than on the floor but Arthur thought it was best to just do whatever Eames said, even if it sounded like a suspicious trap on his behalf.

The young boy brought up his legs, crossing the ankles in an Indian position as he leaned back in the chair which was still warm by Eames’ usage and sat far more comfortably than it originally had looked like. He grabbed the bridges of his feet with his hands as he watched Eames walk towards the door, shoulders rolling with his predatory stride.

The Brit opened the door and Arthur’s weak sense of survival whined at him how the portal had never been locked and he could’ve ran… But the sensible part of him just punched it back down, noting that there is nowhere to run to… even if he escaped Eames’ underground ‘home’.

“Jean-Pierre!” The Brit shouted as he peered outside in the hallway. Only a second later Arthur heard hurried footsteps jogging towards Eames.

“Yes, Colonel?” The male voice was heavily accented with French.

“Allez chercher de la nourriture.” Arthur’s ears perked as Eames fluently requested food in French. The boy had learned bits of different languages in the three years he’d been roaming the streets. A boy his age going by the name of ‘Louis’ had thought him a little French in the three months they’d hung out together and though Arthur’s accent was horrible when speaking the language, he easily understood basic conversations as this.  
Absently the American wondered where Louis would be now… Most likely murdered, or worse; prostituted. The latter was more likely because he’d been a pretty face with blue eyes and golden blond hair.

“Tout de suite, mon Colonel!” A stomp followed, probably as Jean-Pierre saluted his Colonel before his footsteps jogged away once again. Eames closed the door with a huff before he turned on the back of his heels and paced towards the bookshelves against the left wall.

“Can you read, Arthur?” He asked as he stopped in his tracks and dug hands into the pockets of his green pants. Though it was common for people that were Arthur’s age to not have learned to read because of the war and poverty in suburbs, the American still was insulted knowing that Eames assumed there being a possibility that he could not read.

“Yes, Sir.” The boy scowled lightly and Eames glanced at him. The Brit smiled, but whatever the reason, Arthur couldn’t read it from his face. The American shifted in his seat, feeling a bit awkward with the relaxed atmosphere and he tightened the grip on his feet.

“What do you prefer, then?” Arthur looked up at the question, letting his eyes quickly travel over the man’s profile as the latter faced the books in front of him. His nose was strong and cheekbones high. His ridiculously full lips and the tan on his skin gave him a somewhat exotic look, but as far as charming arrogance and haughty dialect went… Eames was very much British.

“Older literature, Sir. Oscar Wilde, Shakespeare, Edgar Allan Poe, Charles Dickens and perhaps some Machiavelli amongst others.” Eames rose his eyebrows at that and whistled softly.

“My, my… Arthur.” He mumbled, rolling his shoulders before he removed his hands from his pockets and instead chose to fold them behind his back. Arthur watched the straps of his suspenders cling at his muscles which were clad in a white dress shirt.

“There’s even some English blokes in there.” He chuckled and Arthur couldn’t decide whether to smirk or frown. Instead he chose to look down and let his hands travel up to squeeze his knees.

“Yeah well, that was before I was old enough to understand the English are the enemy.” The atmosphere changed at that, as if the boy’s words had hurricaned all positivism upside down and straight out of the window.

Arthur looked up at Eames who still was staring at the wall in front of him. His jaws were clenched and even in the dim light, the American could see a muscle jump in the joint.

“Two words, Arthur.” His voice was soft, annoyance lingering. Arthur was sure Eames was insulted by the kid’s rude words about the English but as well was he unsure as to why Eames chose not to address it… Or… ‘not yet’.

“Yes, Sir.” A second later he was literally being saved by the metaphorical bell when someone knocked at the door. Eames sighed as if he didn’t welcome the interruption, before he went to open the door and wave the person in.

Arthur watched as a short Asian male hurried inside. By the curve of his nose, the shape of his eyes and the paleness of his skin, the boy was fairly certain he was of Japanese nationality. The young man - surely not much older than early twenties - nodded and bowed at Eames with downcast eyes before he quickly walked towards Arthur, carrying a tray with a bowl of food on it.

The man lowered the tray on the desk and began placing the bowl and utensils in front of Arthur. The American stretched his legs awkwardly, seating himself more properly and watched in confusion as the Japanese unfolded a fabric napkin and placed it on the boy’s lap.  
He bowed once again, more deeply, body pointed towards Arthur before he wished him a ‘nice meal’ in broken English, picked up the tray and empty cup of Eames’ earlier tea, and he then scurried back to the door.

Eames nodded at the ‘servant’ who again bowed - this time towards the Brit - before he left the room, closing the door with a quiet click behind him. It had all happened in a matter of seconds. Fast and precise.

Arthur blinked from the plate of fresh fruit with cream towards the Brit looking at him. The kid’s eyes were wide and mouth slightly agape as he truly didn’t understand what just had happened. This was shockingly different from his first meal, naked, underneath a table with his hands on the Brit’s feet.

“What is it, Pet?” Eames quirked a brow at him, a small smile teasing around his lips. At least his moodiness had seemed to have dispersed.

“I-uh…” Arthur stuttered before he frowned at the bowl in front of him.

“Did he-uh. Did he just bow to me?” Arthur was well aware of Japanese body language and the dept of the man’s body bending over had only envisioned respect and submission.

“Two words, Arthur. And yes, believe it or not, being the pet of a Colonel puts you higher in rank and level of respect than most of the men that work for me.” He wiggled a meaningful eyebrow at his own words before walking to the cabin that stood against the wall behind Arthur.

The boy followed him in his periphery vision while thinking about the information Eames had just shared with him.  
Even as a ‘pet’, an ‘object’, he stood higher than some of Eames’ servants?

“I don’t get it… Sir.” The boy mumbled, speaking without being allowed to, yet guessing it was worth a shot with the playfulness in Eames’ tones and the laidback body language.

“Get what?” Eames asked as he rummaged through the drawers of the cabin before finally retrieving a Glock. The boy couldn’t help but stir as the man cocked the gun, a loud click notifying it was loaded. Eames hummed before clicking back the safety and tugging the gun between his back and the belt of his pants.

“I don’t understand what is going on. I… don’t understand the rules or what I’m supposed to do, Sir.” Arthur frowned, desperate for some clarity on the matter since rebelling wasn’t going to do a damn thing (for now).

Eames dragged a wooden chair - which the teen hadn’t noticed before - from the corner of the room towards Arthur. The paws scraped loudly on the floorboards beneath. As he sat down not too far from Arthur, facing him, he then pulled a toothpick from behind the shell of his ear and popped the end of it between his lips.

“First of all, Arthur, you are my pet. Not a slave, not a hooker, a pet.” Arthur stared at the man next to him who rolled around the toothpick between his lips as the kid had seen him do many times before.

“Eat.” The Brit grunted, but it wasn’t unfriendly. Arthur turned to the bowl in front of him and picked up a fork, digging into the various kinds of fruits, many of which he’d never seen - let alone tasted - before.

“There is a difference between our dynamic when you’re being disciplined slash punished and when you’re not.” The boy bit down on a strawberry and for a second reveled in the delicious sweetness of the fruit.

“When these sessions of punishment are taking place, you are not allowed to participate in eye contact. Neither are you permitted to speak of your own unless asked a question. Two words always. Also are you prohibited to seat yourself on chairs or anything positioned higher than a floor. You are to do as I say. My demands are to be obeyed without hesitation nor flaw, yeah?” Eames seemed to wait then and Arthur nodded twice before taking a bite of pineapple.

“When not in a session, Arthur…” A beat.

“You are allowed to speak, albeit politely and again with two words, and in fact I will prefer eye contact as this is respectful and attentive… Nonetheless, no glaring as I noticed you are quite skilled at.” Eames’ tone lowered with amusement before he continued.

“You can ask me questions at any given time outside of sessions and as well do I encourage you to share thoughts with me so I can get to know you. Most likely, shared thoughts or curiosity will not hold anything for me to punish you over, so… don’t worry or be afraid to speak your mind. I just want you to be respectful and you’ll be surprised as to how open my mind truly is.” Arthur paused mid-bite and glanced to his left to look at Eames.

“Is this… a session… Sir?” Eames smirked, twirling the toothpick around as he leaned back in his seat, legs falling open whilst he crossed his arms.

“Does this ‘feel’ like a session, Arthur?” The boy bit down on the piece of melon still resting on his tongue before he looked back at the bowl in front of him.

“No, Sir.” He answered truthfully. His mind still pacing around awkwardly over the comfortable atmosphere between them. Arthur didn’t like this… It would’ve been pleasant were he’d been someone who hadn’t had such issues with pride and freedom, but the matter of fact was that he had just those issues and the thought of having this Brit ‘own’ him, made his skin crawl.

Simultaneously though, Arthur also realized his back was in the corner. There was nowhere to go and nothing to achieve. And though the American realized that if he were to do as Eames demanded, he’d live a semi-peaceful life alongside the enemy… and that’s what Eames was; the enemy. For the sake of his parents having died by the hand of the Brits, Arthur could simply not give in this easily.  
He’d never be able to live with himself if he’d allow the enemy to tame him and take away his American spirit. Both possibilities would end bitterly for the boy. No matter if he’d obey or not, both outcomes would leave a nasty bruise on his conscience.

“Don’t break your little head over this.” Eames spoke softly now, as if he’d just read Arthur’s mind.

“Just do as you’re told and everything will be alright, yeah?” Arthur grimaced before shoveling two pieces of pineapple and a slice of banana in his mouth.

“I’m the enemy.” The American’s voice and words were muffled around the food.

“Two words, Arthur.” He patiently replied before seeming to be satisfied by Arthur’s shoulders hunching in a wince at his own mistake.

“And to correct you on what you said. No, you are ‘my pet’. Understood?” Arthur frowned softly at that.

“Yes, Sir.” He mumbled as he continued eating. But his mind couldn’t quite grasp to believe that Eames just didn’t care about the boy’s nationality. The Brits and Yanks loathed one another, surely he must’ve felt some spite to the kid, right?

The awkwardness of Eames observing him eating soon got interrupted with another knock at the Brit’s door.

“Fuck’s sake…” He growled lowly before raising from his seat and almost stomping towards the door.

“What?” Arthur heard him hiss as he glared around the door. The visitor started to whisper then and Arthur couldn’t catch a word even if he’d wanted to - which he did -.

“What? Now?” Eames’ shoulders tensed as he asked those two words and the boy noticed the stiffness in his frame as obvious stress cascaded upon it.

Arthur was busy munching on a particularly unripe piece of pear when Eames slammed the door shut and turned around to walk towards the wooden chest underneath the bookshelves against the wall. Though they currently weren’t having ‘a session’ and Arthur’s curiosity literally made his nose curl, the boy thought else wise than ask what was wrong. He could only hope that Eames’ agitation had nothing to do with him.

“I need to add, my Dearest,” Arthur choked unattractively on a piece of fruit at Eames’ nickname for him.

“That when we happen to have visitors you have to act as if in a session of discipline. The more subdued the better… Unless you want a thorough beating once the visitor has left, though I won’t hesitate to discipline you in front of others when I see fit.” Arthur caught Eames’ grimace when the man had said ‘thorough beating’ and for a moment it made him doubt the actual cruelty present in the Brit’s personality.  
He stored the information away, knowing well enough that a subconscious grimace either meant disapprove or straight-out lying. After all, the American hadn’t survived that long on the streets with no clue of the human body-language and mimic.

“Are we going to get a visitor, Sir?” He asked instead, voice steady and reveling in sounding so calm when the Brit was digging in the chest furiously.

“Not yet.” He replied before retrieving some scarves, no… ties. Eames walked back over towards him and slapped three different ties on the desk.

Arthur paused gnawing and looked up at the man staring down at him.

“Pick one.” He said, jaws clenched. Arthur frowned before he resumed chewing slowly.

“The one I like most, Sir?” Eames nodded curtly and the boy glanced at the three horrendous pieces of fabric. They all looked disgusting, with ancient paisley and too dull of colors.

“They’re ugly, Sir.” Arthur replied dryly, remembering that Eames had told him he would not be punished for having an opinion as long as he worded it politely. He only prayed the Brit had not been joking.

“They’re perfectly swell, Darling!” Eames’ voice rose in mock shock and Arthur started to understand when the Brit was being playful and when not… It was all in his voice, really.  
Arthur did cringe at the pet-name though, as he remembered clearly his mother’s last words before they got separated forever.

_‘I’m so sorry, Darling.’_

The American tightened his lips before lowering his fork on the desk, all of his appetite disappearing with the nauseating memory of his mother apologizing to him with tears in her eyes.

“Arthur, you look pale. Everything alright? They’re not that offensive are they?” The boy shook his head quickly. He’d be damned to share the sickening nostalgic feeling he just had experienced with the simple word.

“This one.” He muttered instead, choosing the less atrocious one of the three, and praying to dear God he wouldn’t have to wear it himself. Eames took the tie on which Arthur had lowered his hand and hummed lowly.

“Not my favorite, but it’ll do.” With that he picked up the other two and tossed them back in the chest before making way towards the door.

“Finish your meal,” He began, hand on the knob of the door as he looked Arthur over.

“Afterwards I want you to stand in the corner, any corner, hands behind your back until I return.” Eames waited for Arthur to reply and the boy gingerly looked up to meet the man’s eyes with his own.

“How long will that be, Sir?” The American asked, any emotion well-hidden.

“A couple of hours, three at the most. And don’t think about cheating… I’ll know and you’ll pay. Is that clear, Arthur?” The Brit raised an eyebrow and though he was smirking, his eyes oozed warning.

Though Arthur planned to rebel the moment the man was gone, perhaps trash the office or just fucking sleep in the chair because he could, he nodded swiftly.

“Yes, Sir.” Eames’ eyes narrowed for a second and Arthur wondered if the man had heard the lie in his voice. But the Colonel just grinned, flashing crooked teeth, before he waved the hand holding the tie that Arthur had chosen and left the room.

It took two minutes before Arthur got up from his seat to walk towards the bookshelves against the wall. Long enough for him to make sure Eames wasn’t going to return abruptly.  
It didn’t take long before he found Shakespeare’s ‘A Lover’s Complaint’ and he retreated into Eames’ chair, pulling up his legs and opening the small book.  
His initial plan had been to pick the lock of the door and investigate Eames’ home, but he’d caught a glance of the soldier’s guarding the door when the Brit had stepped outside and he was fairly certain they still stood outside the room now.

So, the American casually swiped the unfinished bowl of fruit onto the floor before he licked his thumb and turned the first page of the book.

He’d not be fooled by the charming man. With his friendly manners and thoughtful words. Arthur would not be trapped by the assumptions of Eames being a nice man only in return of Arthur’s obedience. He would not crawl around on all fours, wag his tail and bark happily at the man’s return.

“Fucking prick.” Arthur growled under his breath as he tried to read the poetry resting against his knees.

In the end Arthur learned that he couldn’t focus on literature in the enemy’s office unless he had pretty much ruined the place.

The kid had started with swiping all the paperwork and files onto the floor before emptying the drawers on them. He made sure to do everything as quiet as possible, not wanting the soldiers outside to bust into the office because of the noise.

Afterwards he’d emptied the chest’s contents, tipped the chair Eames had dragged from the corner and then took absolute sadistic pleasure in peeling book by book from shelves to scatter them about on the floorboards.

The last things that had to suffer Arthur’s teenage rebellion were the frames on walls and ornaments on furniture.

Even now, after half an hour of calmly and quietly trashing the place, Arthur panted as he looked around him. His heart beat fast and a grin rested on his young face. It felt great, being surrounded by the mess he‘d made. Even though he knew Eames probably had enough servants to clean up the mess for him and he probably hadn’t left anything of importance in the office for Arthur to ruin, it still felt great… As if he’d taken a piss on the man’s territory.

Exactly two hours after Arthur’s ‘mild’ outburst, when the boy sat in the more comfortable chair with Shakespeare’s poetry resting in his lap, in the middle of absolute mayhem… Eames returned.

Arthur looked up as the door unlocked, swinging open to reveal a neatly dressed Eames. The man was dressed in a gray suit which went oddly well with the orangy-beige tie Arthur had chosen earlier, mainly because of the thick fabric.

Eames looked around slowly, eyes wide and lips thinned as they pressed shut firmly. Their eyes met and Arthur’s cocky confidence melted away like snow underneath the sun when the Brit smirked broadly at him, eyes leering, before opening his mouth to whisper.

“Charming…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Snowysootsprites (@AO3 / @tumblr) for helping me with the British language and giving me inspiration and many ideas. Also for coming up with 'Jean-Pierre'. Honhonhon~


	11. I Am Human and I Need to Be Loved Just Like Everybody Else Does

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me very long, I apologize.   
> I had my wisdom teeth removed so I wrote this chapter while being high as a kyte on painmedication and afterwards I ended up with a chapter I didn't like.  
> Then I tried rewriting it, rereading it dozens of times and still wasn't glad. (Also working 40 hours a week wasn't helping)  
> Then I discussed this fucker for seven years with my friend Chloe (snowysootsprites@AO3 / merry-chases@tumblr) and realized I had to start anew.  
> So yeah, I basically wrote this chapter about five times and ended up with a completely different outcome.
> 
> I am now semi-pleased with the outcome and am sad to say I'm getting my other two wisdom teeth removed tomorrow... So I have no idea when the next chap will be finished. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience and I hope you enjoy this wacky chapter.  
> Bye!

  
**Part Ten.**   
_\- I Am Human and I Need to Be Loved Just Like Everybody Else Does -_   


Eames kicked the door shut behind him before he pointed to the floor - scattered with papers, books and ornaments - and barked.

“Down!” Arthur sat frozen, his face a mixture of stubbornness and fear, the book he’d been holding slipped from his lap and landed on the floor with a dull thud.

“Down, Arthur!” The Brit rose his voice as he snapped his fingers once more at the floor. The boy’s body twitched as if it subconsciously wanted to obey Eames, but the mind told it else wise.

With every second that the boy hesitated and more so disobeyed him, Eames could feel the anger inside of him rise. He wasn’t so much upset over the fact that the Yank had trashed his office, but he loathed how his arrogance found enough willpower to ignore such a simple order as to lower his body onto the floor.  
It was one thing to stand up for yourself, but it was a whole other to not accept punishment like a true man would do.

“I-I’m not backing down from you.” Arthur’s voice was tight and Eames could see his throat contract as he swallowed numerous times whilst his wide eyes gaped at the Brit. If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear he could smell the fear in the kid’s sweat which already lingered in his nostrils.  
Eames always had had a particularly well developed sense of smell.

“Oh?” Eames mocked him, a cold smile on his lips as they rounded on the word.

Though Eames was burning with anger, he tamed it down for the sake of the ‘pet’. After all, this was something very common in the beginning of a relationship with a feisty little twat such as Arthur himself. The Brit remembered, with a grimace, how one of his soldiers had warned him about the boy’s lust for fight back in the room where he’d seen him for the first time.

But the Colonel couldn’t deny the sadistic pleasure he took from finding a person who thought he’d be a match. At this moment Arthur truly believed he had a say in things, truly thought that his ridiculous pride would drag him through any misery and this was only because Eames was going easy on him… was allowing him to believe he still had a chance.

Not that Eames wanted to change current events - though Arthur should bloody tone it down with the endless wanking around - because no matter the boy being his pet, he didn’t want a lifeless or more so spineless boy to serve his every need.

But as the man walked towards the Yank, he could see the boy’s resolve crumble apart and the closer he got, the tinier Arthur seemed to become in the chair. He curled up in the seat, ready to kick out, his eyes glaring from between his knees.

“One last time… Get down… on the floor.” Eames counted to five in his head, plenty of time for Arthur’s brain to catch up, but at the fifth count the Brit just sighed and reached out.  
He’d seen the foot coming before Arthur had so much as lifted it from the seat and he easily curled his fingers around a narrow ankle. The boy yelped as Eames pulled harshly, dragging him from the chair in the process and the boy landed on the floor with a thump.

The Colonel didn’t bother to word what he wanted and instead bent over to manhandle Arthur on hands and knees. The boy struggled to some degree, but fear was obvious in his rapid breathing and pinched huffs. Eames snarled unpleasantly as he realized Arthur was all bark and no bite… Truly he’d expected more of him… Then again, he was a bloody Yank. The lot of ‘em were like that.

Eames curled strong fingers around the back of Arthur’s neck and shoved him down hard so his chest collided with the floor. With his other hand, Eames pushed the boy’s knees underneath him so he sat   
on the floor with his tummy pressed against the tops of his thighs and upper-legs.

“Nose on the floor.” Eames whispered, pinching his neck for emphasis and Arthur turned his face towards the boards underneath him.

“Hands beside your head. Palms down.” Arthur shivered and Eames could feel his rapid pulse underneath the pads of his fingers. But he did obey. The kid slid his hands over the wooden boards until they lied flat, with spread fingers, on either side of his face.

“Stay.” Eames muttered, waiting for long seconds before he got up, using the boy’s neck as leverage to push himself off. Arthur groaned quietly at the ache.

As the Brit retrieved his pack of fags from the pocket of his gray jacket, he couldn’t help but enjoy the sight. He was pleased that physical intimidation once again had done its job. No matter how many times people would be beaten, they never did get used to the fear of promised hurt and abuse. It was instinctive really, just a carnal and ancient desire to survive.

After Eames had lit one of his cigarettes he picked up the wooden chair that was tipped over and dragged it towards the boy who still breathed heavily as he sat on the floor in the uncomfortable position, his back curved almost painfully weren‘t it for his young age and bendiness.

Eames carelessly kicked books and papers away before firmly placing the chair to Arthur’s left. He plumped down with a sigh before lifting his feet - clad in expensive black leather shoes - and lowering them not-too-gently on Arthur’s back. As he took a drag he crossed his ankles and brought one arm up to cradle his own tummy so he could lean an elbow on his wrist.

“What is to be done about this, hm?” The man murmured, already feeling the kid’s body tremble underneath the weight of his sharp heels.   
Eames leaned a bit forward to tap his ashes onto the floor and smiled when the boy winced as the smoldering grey particles landed just barely next to his left hand.

This was getting a tad too tedious for Eames’ likings and the man pondered whilst he finished his fag. Arthur was obviously patting boundaries, trying to feel and experience how far he could go with Eames. And though it was only normal for the American to experiment in this new position in life, the Brit also realized that clarity would go a long way.

And thus, in a fit of uncharacteristic impulsiveness, Eames made a decision to change tactics. Talk, conversate more than they had in the past. Perhaps if he told the kid as much as he could and allowed the boy to speak his mind, things would evolve a bit more rapidly and with less incidents.

“Why did you do this, Arthur?” Eames asked, voice calm yet strict whilst he leaned forwards to press the butt of his cigarette on the floor. The boy moaned quietly as the movement caused Eames’ heels to dig deeply into his back.

“Answer me.” Eames cocked his head to look at the boy’s face. Arthur’s glanced from the corner of his eye towards the man before he gulped audibly. His nose curled as it stayed firmly planted against the floor.

“Fuck off.” The Yank muttered under his breath, barely managing to not hiss. Eames stretched a bit in his seat, deliberately digging his shoes more firmly into the boy’s small and scrawny back. Arthur groaned and he squeezed his eyes shut at the instant punishment.

“Now, now, none of that.” Eames teased - letting the ‘two words’ rule slip - and his smirk widened when he saw Arthur literally pout. His bottom lip stuck out from beneath the top one and a soft frown was visible even with his forehead and nose pressed against the wooden floorboards beneath.   
Whether it was a subconscious tick, Eames couldn’t tell. Nonetheless, it was ridiculously childish, intentional or not.

The Brit wasn’t much pleased about the attitude and rudeness, though he had to admit he was in mild awe of the kid’s braveness - though foolish on Arthur’s behalf -. That being said, he did notice the thoughtfulness in the boy’s face and knew he was starting to seep through that stubborn wall of American pride and adolescent arrogance.

“Come on, then.” The Brit urged after a couple of minutes, making sure his voice sounded much more friendly than he actually felt. After all, Eames still was upset at the boy’s arrogance and would like very much to just shove him down on the floor and shake him so hard that he’d weep out of fear.  
Eames was pretty sure he’d not see Arthur cry that easily though.

But the Brit stuck to his plan. Being that he should keep his composure and bluff his way through this so Arthur would believe the atmosphere wasn’t as loaded as it felt. Said atmosphere weighed so heavily at this moment that Eames could feel it in the pit of his stomach where annoyance boiled.

“No.” Arthur bit , his fingers curling a bit as if he wanted to grab a hold onto something - most likely his conscience or perhaps that bloody pride-. Luckily for him he remembered the demand and after a moment he flattened out his palms once more.

Eames frowned in annoyance whilst he sucked his plump lower lip between his teeth. The kid was a total nutter, had to be… Arthur just didn’t realize the things Eames could do to him, or perhaps he didn’t care. The Brit shifted in his seat and made sure to once again dig the heels of his Italian shoes right next to Arthur’s spine. The boy’s back curled as he hissed, but other than that he didn’t move, taking the punishment with arrogant flare.

“Arthur, you‘re going to answer me. That’s an order, yeah?” Eames managed to not growl, though barely, as he wondered why the brat had to make things so difficult right now. He wanted a ‘pet’ that put up a fight, but more so did Eames want a boy who knew when to fool around and when to tag along the bloody wagon of mutual respect and stop acting like a proper twat.

Eames may or may not have realized at that exact moment that he was ‘getting too old for these shenanigans’.

“Or else?” Arthur mocked and then grimaced as if trying to hold back a hysterical giggle whilst his fingers tapped against the floor to emphasis his own arrogant tone. Or perhaps it was because of nervousness. Eames hoped for a mixture.

The Brit tutted, pulling one leg back only to nudge the boy against his hip. Arthur’s body tensed even more - if that was possible - and the intake of breath made Eames know for sure that the Yank was far more afraid than he let out to be.

“I’m sure you can come up with something.” Eames spoke in an uninterested tone, crossing his ankles once more before retreating his pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his tailored jacket.

One fag and numerous minutes of silence later, Arthur huffed and his body caved only slightly. Eames made sure to poke the toe of his shoe against his ribs until the Yank curled his body back into the previous curve.

“Because I wanted to.” He replied stiffly, any emotion well-hidden from his face but his voice betrayed nervousness and uncertainty.

“Why did you want to?” The Colonel asked, removing one foot to press out the cigarette butt on the floorboard before he rested it back on the kid’s spine.

“Isn’t it obvious?” The arrogant snort that followed made Eames clench his jaws and as he closed his eyes he pinched the bridge of his nose. This brat was going to give him a headache.

“No, it is not, my Pet. I’m afraid you’ll have to clarify as I am a tad daft, yeah?” Arthur frowned at the obvious sarcasm but lucky for him he didn’t grab onto the self-deprecating comment and use it on his own quick tongue.

“I don’t like you, that’s why.” The boy mumbled the words, not at all comfortable with conversing.

“That sounds like an understatement.” After Eames’ attempted ‘joke’ - not that it had been intentional, but sarcasm and condescending streamed within his veins - another long silence weighed between them.

When Arthur’s body started to tremble and his temples oozed pearls of sweat, Eames decided to continue. He assumed that the obvious struggle the Yank’s body was having against the weight on his uncomfortably bent back, would make him talk or at least listen.

“Why don’t you like me?” Arthur frowned and his face turned when he wanted to gape at Eames as if he just had sprouted another head.

“Why?!” He squawked, teenage voice breaking with disbelieve of Eames’ question. The Colonel cocked an eyebrow at that and then tapped his finger on his own nose, mouthing ‘floor’. Arthur glared before turning back to face the wooden boards underneath and he planted the tip of his nose back on its previous location.

“You know, any other ‘owner’ would’ve bashed your skull by now.” The Brit lightly added when the boy again chose rudely to not answer him directly.

“Are you offering?” Eames bit back an amused grin at the boy’s cocky reply. It became more and more difficult to tell annoyance from amusement with this little twat strutting around with his chest proudly puffed out.

“Shut up, Arthur.” The Colonel said instead, voice dry, before he pulled back his feet and rose from the chair.

“What do you think of me, Arthur?” Eames’ voice was firm but lacked any threat, though the close proximity in which he circled the boy’s body aimed to intimidate Arthur into honesty. The American couldn’t stop himself from fidgetting as the man’s shoes creaked slowly around him, barely missing Arthur’s spread out fingers.  
Eames did not fear at all for Arthur to all-’round-survivor on his ankle and run for the hills.

“Don’t hold back, after all I did tell you before I won’t punish for speaking one’s mind.” Arthur huffed at that and the Brit immediately nudged the toe of his shoe in between the kid’s ribs. The wince that followed was more because of having been started than it was about it having been painful.

“Arrogance on the other hand…” Eames muttered, circling the kid and reveling in the dominant sensation of seeing the young boy lying on the floor at his feet.

“I think you’re an asshole.” He began and the older man made sure to not differentiate his pace nor the length of his steps as to not give away the flare of agitation that that comment had brought with it.

“I think you get off on being in complete control and I think you’re a talented liar aiming to gain my trust with false promises until I’m completely subdued.” Though Arthur had hit home with the first accusation and on the right track with the second, he couldn’t completely agree he was lying just for the sake of the boy’s complete submission.

“Okay. And what do you think I want out of all this then?” Eames came to a halt in front of the boy, the tips of his shoes touching the tips of his fingers but Arthur did not pull back his hands, promising Eames before he himself even realized, that he could be a lovely Pet if only he’d put his heart into it.

The Brit was sure that Arthur would do exactly that. One day he’d come to realize that Eames’ intentions weren’t all that gloomy or dark and that if he’d find it in himself to be obedient and polite, their ‘relationship’ with one another would go a long way.

Pets were supposed to obey each demand from their master, without hesitation or second-thoughts. Never was said ‘master’ encouraged to share weakness and understanding. Yet Eames didn’t agree on not including the latter in a Master-Pet dynamic and he understood that trust was the basic layer on which respect and obedience could be built without flaw.

As well, Eames’ corrupt sense of empathy in a world where if you did not think of yourself on the first place you’d end up killed, obliged him to take a step back from being ‘the bad guy’ and try to see inside Arthur’s mind.  
He was just a boy… Just a bloody human being such as Eames himself. No matter his American origin, no matter his unfortunate past and lowest rank in the current war filled world, he was only human.  
And no matter his angry, arrogant and proud façade; Arthur was barely sixteen years old and had lost both of his parents… Not a single child should’ve gone through such grief. Somewhere in there, he needed to be loved. He craved it, yet did not yet realize.

“I don’t know what you want out of all this… But I’m sure it won’t hold pretty sights for me to see.” Eames tutted at the boy’s reply before squatting down.

“Now, now Pet… You mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, yeah?” Eames joked, yet wasn’t in denial of his own true intentions. Never mind Arthur’s attitude and never mind his foolish American pride, he was a little boy that had coincidentally - or not - strutted into Eames’ life and the man felt an instinctive need to help him out, turn his life over for the better.  
Sure, he’d been demanded to own a pet and could do no other than claim this boy as his pet but the intention was completely different than for example Saito’s. Unlike all the others, Eames did want to turn this sad opportunity towards a positive direction and if downright owning a human being was what it would take to save its life, then so be it.

Eames had seen one too many woman and loads too many children die in the current war and though the whole globe seemed to be lacking empathy and humane instincts, the Colonel refused participating in becoming a heartless warrior defending his country and disregarding the innocent lives being taken in the battle for it.

That didn’t add up to the fact that Eames had snapped dozens of necks with his bare hands before, though. Nonetheless, in the end you had to watch out for yourself, have eyes on your back and any hint of traitorousness even from your own men, should be wiped out and get rid off immediately. ‘t was all about priorities, really.

“What I want out of this is mutual respect.” Eames began, allowing the words to sink in as he looked down at the back of the boy’s head. The black strands of hair resting on his pale neck seemed soft to the touch and the Brit absently noted he should have Arthur get a haircut soon to bare his nape permanently.

“I promise I will respect you when you are ready to do the same for me. I want you to obey my demands but as well do I want you to share your thoughts and feelings so I can come to understand you better and so we can discuss any topic you might be wary off. I will make adjustments if you desire… as long as we have a mutual understanding and later on; trust in one another.” Eames sunk teeth into his bottom lip at his own words, knowing that if Saito ever caught word of this conversation, he’d be a dead man.

It was completely not-done to be so considerate of a simple ‘pet’, especially one being an American. But the Brit had made up his mind, he’d not be able to live with himself otherwise. As much as the kid’s arrogance grinded his gears and as much as Eames demanded respect; he’d not be able to stand and look in the mirror were he to hurt this child either by his own hand or by a third party.  
Surely enough he had to find a balance. Being too strict would break Arthur into a kid better off dead, being too kind would risk opportunities for Saito to catch word and take the kid away (for prostitution or simple torture and exploitation) and afterwards snap Eames’ neck.

“Does that make sense… Arthur?” The boy remained silent for a while and Eames wiggled his fingers impatiently, though the kid wouldn’t know because his face was still firmly downcast, nose against the floor.

“It makes sense, but that doesn’t mean I believe it.” His tone was clipped, obviously biting back sarcastic or angry tones and the Colonel rose back to his feet, watching Arthur’s body slightly relax as the distance increased.

“Fair enough.” He shrugged whilst retrieving another fag and lighting it. His teeth grinded into the butt of the cigarette, his own pride firmly annoyed with Arthur’s adolescent need to have the last word, to always be a tad too arrogant and a bit too rude. Eames hoped to metaphorically kick it out of him as time progressed.

The ‘offer’ he’d made had been rather truthful, though Eames had not mentioned that he wanted to know said information about Arthur’s wellbeing just for the sake of converting him into an obedient pet (with a dash of pride left within). Nonetheless, Eames was still by foremost the Colonel of England’s military, a natural leader and a man who’d done gruesome things for the sake of his nation. Manipulation and deception were a second nature to him so much so, that at times he drowned in his own lies and truths and lost sight on which to believe.

Eames denied any confusion or hypocrisy within himself.

“Let’s continue disciplining you, yeah?” Whilst the man leaned forwards, Arthur once more tensed and Eames made sure to wrap his fingers slowly into the collar of his oversized shirt, allowing the boy to notice the lack of initial threat.  
Eames pulled him up to his feet, holding his breath when watching the young lean body uncurl and unfold until Arthur stood with tilted chin in front of him.

“Eyes down, chin down.” Arthur obeyed slowly.

“You’re punishment session this time will last far longer than I had initially planned for it to. Remember this is not for having spoken your mind but more so for the arrogance as well as the earlier childish behavior as in making a mess of my office as well as for the unfinished sessions we’ve had before.” Eames’ fingers were still curled into the fabric of the shirt Arthur was wearing and his knuckles felt warm with the kid’s body heath seeping through the garment.

“Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, who?” Arthur took a deep breath at that and Eames narrowed his eyes as he saw the boy’s hands fold into fists. His small body trembled with bit-back anger and even though the Brit was almost as much annoyed with the kid as Arthur was with him, he felt an odd degree of second-handed pride for the Yank’s never-ending lust for fight.

“Yes, Sir.” Arthur whispered, jaws clenching as his eyes drilled holes into Eames’ feet.

“That’s it, Pet. Swallow it down… all of it.” Eames smiled cruelly before releasing the shirt and patting the kid a bit too harshly on his left cheek, twice.

“You will clean up this mess, all of it.” The Colonel spoke as he stepped away from Arthur, dragging his feet through the books and ornaments on the floor.

“Afterwards you will undress and stand naked in that corner.” Arthur’s eyes followed Eames’ finger which pointed to the corner across from the - now tipped over - desk, as well as parallel to the office’s door.

“Hands on your back, facing the wall. No sitting down.” The Brit took a drag from his cigarette before casually tapping the ashes onto the floor as he turned to the door.

“You will remain like that until I return.” The Brit pouted then, as his back was turned towards Arthur, when he spotted his favorite book on the floor, pages creased. Bloody twat…  
He bended over, picking up his beloved copy of Oscar Wilde’s ‘Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime’, and then opened the door before turning back to face the Yank.

“If you cheat…” Arthur’s eyebrow cocked at that, his eyes fluttering from Eames’ face back to the floor.

“Or pull another stunt like this… I promise you, dearest Pet, you will regret it during every final second of your life meeting its premature death caused by my own hands.” A beat followed.

“This is your last chance, Arthur. And I think you’re well clever enough to figure out the consequences when my patience has been rubbed the wrong way one too many times.” Eames tried to read Arthur’s body-language after that, but the boy stood still, staring down at the floor, black bangs covering most of his eyes..  
Again the Colonel noted he should have the kid get a haircut so his face was open and bare for the man to read.

“Anything you want to add before you’re left alone for an undecided period of time?” Arthur looked up once more, brown orbs settling on the man’s chest and Eames watched the kid clench and unclench his fists, jaw set before he muttered.

“Your atrocious tie is askew, Sir.” The Brit blinked at that. Though he was a professional at reading others, he had not a single clue as to why the boy would add such a fact. Still Eames looked down and noticed that indeed his ‘lovely’ - not atrocious, mind you - tie looked a bit ruffled.   
With narrowed eyes he observed the kid for a couple of long seconds, noticing how his breathing was shallow and the lines of his shoulders hunched with anticipating possible confrontation.

In the end, the Colonel decided it was mindless teenage last-word-stubbornness and after another drag he flipped his cigarette towards the kid’s feet.

“Put that out, will ya?” Eames turned around, late enough to see Arthur toe a heavy book over the butt to smother it from oxygen, and then left the room and locked the door behind him.

For a couple of minutes the British man had to lean against his door and stare into the empty hallway. He didn’t know if he’d gotten through to the kid. He didn’t know if Arthur yet believed him to mean well… But if Arthur was bright enough, he’d soon realize that Eames indeed wasn’t the most horrible of ‘masters’ to have owning him and afterwards hopefully would come to trust and respect him so that the Colonel could return the favor.

Either way, his heart pumped a bit too fast with agitation and his stomach weighed a bit too heavy with an unknown sickening feeling in his gut that leaned dangerously close to ‘guilt’.

As Eames walked through the hallway, snapping his fingers twice to retrieve two soldiers to guard his office door, his subconscious screamed that he was on a path of self-destruction. But it was too early for that. Too early in the setting of his mind and the time zone of his life to even consider that he might be handling things the wrong way, that he might be handling things so they benefited an unknown sixteen-year old American rather than himself; a twenty-eight year old man who’d fought his way through life and now ruled England’s army with an iron fist.

Nonetheless, as much as Eames was talented at reading others he was even better at being completely daft about his own subconscious core. Even more so his skills to manipulate others to his hand found new-reached excellence with taunting his own blindness and denial.

But the time for self-realizations wasn’t then and wouldn’t come for many more years.


	12. I Can Feel the Soil Falling Over My Head

  
**Part Eleven**   
_\- I Can Feel the Soil Falling Over My Head -_   


_February, 2051._

With a dull thud Arthur’s head sagged against the wooden surface behind him. Only having the pitch-black darkness as his companion, caused the boy’s mind to wander and eventually to crawl back into the past and dig up memories. Or more so, searching for reasons and truths as to why his relationship with Eames had progressed to where they stood today.

Arthur assumed that it had been set about a month ago. After having trashed Eames’ office and being left to clean the place and stand in the corner, something in his mind had caved.   
Which wasn’t unlikely because in the end he’d been left alone for six hours straight in the room. Arthur remembered the pride he’d felt that night, the urge to succeed in whatever Eames had demanded of him. Not for the Brit’s pleasure, mind you, but only for his own… To prove the Colonel wrong, taunt him… rub him all the wrong ways but still right enough to deny the man any reason to punish the kid further.

So after an hour of cleaning, Arthur had undressed himself to stand in the corner which Eames had pointed out for him. It took five hours, five excruciating hours of aching muscles, trembling limbs and a mind that mangled around on itself for so long that the boy had felt something snap inside of him.

By the time Eames had strutted back inside, Arthur’s paranoia had lost a tad of its intensity, mainly because the Brit’s words about ‘mutual respect’ and ‘trust in one another’ had been replayed so many times that a part of his subconscious had been bound to believe it… or at least hope for it to have been the truth.

Eames’ hand in his hair and the murmured ‘good boy’ in his ear hadn’t helped the matter either and Arthur recalled the shiver that had crawled up his spine when the Englishman had casually patted his shoulder before nudging him out of the corner.   
Afterwards he’d been rewarded with a restful night’s sleep (only one hand cuffed to the floorboard) on the pillow at the bed’s foot-end and in the morning Eames had allowed him to take a long bath and have a generous breakfast on his soft cushion on the floor.

To quote the man, it had been ‘the new start with a clean slate’.

This being said didn’t mean that Arthur felt any less negativism towards his captor, but also did he realize that well… for the current setting in his life, he could’ve been off far worse. It was the lesser of two evils and even though Eames’ careful kindness could be completely staged to lure the boy into a trap, it still made Arthur’s subconscious feel a bit more at ease than it had in the beginning.

In the month that had passed, Arthur had still occasionally rebelled and disobeyed and though punishment mostly included physical strain and aches, Eames had not once touched him in a way that’d hurt the boy.

In contrary…

Arthur only recalled physical contact when he’d been ‘a good boy’… A pat on his back, a hand ruffling his hair and on one occasion even a light tap on his cheek. Similar to when those touches occurred, Arthur’s body tensed at the memories of them.

A knock woke the boy from his thoughts and he rolled his head against the hard surface behind him to face the direction from where the sound had come. When, after a pause, another tapping of knuckles against wood could be heard, Arthur rolled his eyes and huffed.

“Come in.” He called. When the wooden door opened, he had to squint against the light that seeped inside his current location.

“Ello, Pet.” Came the teasing tone of Eames. Arthur made sure to glare at the man as they were already on eyelevel even though the kid was seated with knees pulled up tight against his chest.

“Need a hand to help you unfold? You look like a tasty pretzel in there.” The Brit’s smirk was too amused for Arthur’s taste, but he’d been warned… There really was no excuse as to why Arthur hadn’t - to some degree - deserved to have been locked into one of the cabins above the kitchen counter for two hours straight.

After all… he had insulted the Brit’s clothes this morning, had not-so-accidentally dropped his breakfast before it could’ve been served and okay… having thrown a copy of Shakespeare’s ‘Romeo And Juliette’ against the back of the Colonel’s head after the man had specifically warned Arthur that he’d lock him in a cabin were he to continue acting like a ‘prissy little twat‘, assumingly was indeed ‘asking for it’.

“No.” The boy grunted before awkwardly crawling out of the wooden cubicle. Eames watched patiently, leaning against the kitchen table with arms folded, as the boy’s lean body descended carefully onto the counter underneath and lastly hopped down onto the floor.

“Your physique is improving, Arthur.” Eames commented, making the boy look down on his own body - dressed in oversized garments - with a frown on his face. Before he could ask what the Brit had meant, the latter continued.

“Now, you know the rules, state the reasons for which you have been punished for and apologize… genuinely.” The adolescent rolled his head around - not in an arrogant manner persé - until his neck made a couple of popping sounds. After all, his whole body was stiff as a board from having been seated in such a small space for hours.

“For insulting your garments of the day,” The boy began, stretching arms above him, locking fingers and standing on the tips of his toes. Eames watched closely as Arthur unfolded every bone and muscle with careful precision.

“Dropping your breakfast-”

“On purpose, yeah?”

“Not on purpose.” Arthur frowned, looking up to see Eames smile at him with a teasing glint in his eyes. With a huff the boy let his arms fall back down.

“Okay… on purpose.” He admitted before continuing.

“And for throwing a book at you.” Arthur’s lips couldn’t help but quirk at the memory, it had been a lovely sight to behold after all. Eames hadn’t seen it coming - literally as his back had been turned towards the kid -. In the end it had absolutely been worth it.

“Don’t forget the tie incident.” Eames raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

“I assumed this was included in the garment insulting?”

“Hardly… You really gave it your all when it came to my tie.” Eames downright pouted his full lips as he looked down at the horrendous vomit-green tie around his neck, his hand stroked it affectionately.

“I’m not going to apologize specifically for that disgusting piece of fabric.” The boy growled. In the last couple of weeks he’d learned to read Eames to some degree. Whereas the man had seemed explosive before, he truly did send out many subtle warning-signals - intentional or not, Arthur wasn‘t sure -.   
As for this exact moment, he looked laidback, a playful pout on his lips and eyes distracted with the lazy fingers fumbling the green tie around. Also, the ‘session’ was finished now, no needs for ‘sirs’ or ‘eyes downs’. This all gave Arthur enough courage to once again insult whatever he dared.

“Watch your mouth, little boy.” Arthur quirked a brow but still nodded before he started to crack his knuckles. Eames’ eyes lowered to the kid’s hands and Arthur didn’t miss the light grimace that flashed over his face for only a split second. Something about ‘popping bones’ seemed to make the Brit’s skin crawl… The teen had noticed this odd characteristic a couple of weeks ago and couldn’t help but indulge in the miniscule torturing this information had allowed him to perform.

“I apologize.”

“For?”

“For all the facts I’ve stated…” Arthur mumbled, watching Eames unfold his arms as he pushed himself away from the table he’d been leaning against.

“And the tie.” The Brit nodded at that and hummed his approval before patting Arthur on the head.

“We’re having a visitor tonight.” He began, his dirt-and-gravel voice making the adolescent’s skin crawl with more than only agitation.   
Arthur followed Eames as the man continued to talk whilst walking out of the kitchen, broad back turned towards him and allowing the kid to glare at the shoulders which rolled underneath the dress shirt he was wearing.

“Did I ever mention what to be done and how to act when we’re having someone over, Arthur?” Eames’ stride was long limbed and catlike, aggravating the American because he had to hop every fifth step to keep up with the much taller man… Arthur prayed his hormones would kick a growing-spurt into action sooner than later.

“Maybe, but I probably wasn’t listening if you did.” He answered dryly and felt his heart skip a beat when he saw the man’s back tense for only a second.

“Cheeky bugger.” Eames whispered underneath his breath but loud enough for Arthur to hear.

“State the behavioral rules when in a session.” The Colonel ordered as he turned a corner to the right, Arthur had no difficulty anymore in remembering directions and knew they were headed to Eames’ (their) bedroom.

“Two words at all times. No eye-contact and preferably keeping sight downcast. No talking unless asked a question or ordered to.” Arthur knew the rules from the top of his head now, Eames had made him study them in a quick pace and the boy had only learned them so fast because he’d been punished for every mistake before.

“Always seating oneself at a lower level than the ‘master’, or if circumstances demand; at similar level… Never higher.” Eames opened the bedroom door and Arthur walked past the two soldiers guarding the room, and inside as the man stood aside for him to enter.

“Go on.” The Brit demanded, closing the door and making way to the dresser across of the bed. Arthur, out of habit, seated himself down on his pillow at the bed’s foot end, and continued.

“No sulking, pouting, glaring or any other facial expression that may ooze disrespect. Same with sounds such as huffing. Commands must be obeyed immediately without hesitation or denial. Punishment must be accepted with pride yet submission.” Eames nodded and waved a dismissive hand when Arthur wanted to continue.

“Now, when having someone over, yeah?” The Brit began, ruffling in one of his drawers, back curved so much that the muscles made his suspenders strain and stretch.

“You must act exactly as if in a session.” The boy nodded, trying not to already fantasize of how he could ‘fuck him over’ in front of an audience. As much as Eames might assume he’d tamed Arthur… said boy still remembered his roots and even more so those of the Englishman.

He was being this timid for his own benefit only. It had nothing to do with pleasing his ‘master’.

“But!” Arthur snapped back into attention and he looked up as Eames peeked over his shoulder. Their eyes held for a moment before the Brit flashed him an arrogant grin.

“But, my Arthur,” His voice softened as he continued rumbling through the top drawer of his dresser.

“I am the only one in the room, yeah?” The man straightened back up and Arthur frowned slightly when he saw the gray tie in Eames’ hand as the man turned around to face him.

“This means that, no matter who it is that is in our presence, you are to ignore them completely at all times unless I tell you otherwise.” The boy’s mind focused solely on the Brit’s words now as he felt nervous about a possible visitor. Eames squatted down in front of him and held the tie next to the kid’s face.

“Getting some nice color in your skin…” He mumbled more to himself than to Arthur as his eyes darted from the tie to the kid’s face and back. After a curt nod he rose back to his feet.

“I don’t care if it’d be the bloody Queen, rest her soul, in our company… You aught to ignore them, completely. And Arthur…” Eames left the sentence hanging until the boy looked up at him.

“If they were to touch you in any harmful way or manner… you have my permission to defend yourself and you shall not be punished for doing so.” The words made Arthur’s skin crawl for only a second as he realized that the ‘peace and quiet’ with Eames could possibly be disrupted by outsiders. But as well did his anger flare at the man’s arrogance for believing that Arthur wouldn’t stand up for himself without his permission.  
Eames seemed to notice some of the boy’s worry.

“I wouldn’t let it get that far, though. After all, you are my ‘pet’, Arthur. It’s a give and take, init? Your obedience for my care and protection.” The American nodded awkwardly before he looked down, not able to stand the intensity of Eames’ grayish eyes.  
He despised how honest the man’s face could seem when telling him such things that promised kindness for the boy. Because honestly, Arthur didn’t want to believe him, didn’t want to trust this Brit’s words and knew that when looking into Eames’ eyes, his judgment and suspicion wavered out of place. Not to mention… he could damn well take care of himself.

The Colonel stood in front of Arthur for another couple of minutes, weaving the tie between his fingers. Eames chuckled then, Arthur wasn’t sure what for, before he turned on the back of his heels and strutted into the adjoined bathroom.

“And don’t even think about disobeying me in front of others. In contrary to what you may expect, punishment will be much more severe if you embarrass me in front of visitors. I won’t hesitate to discipline you right at the spot for everyone to see.” After that, Eames closed the bathroom door behind him and left Arthur to huff as he glared at the door.

The American could already feel nervousness seep into his system. He’d just somewhat had gotten used to spending so much time in Eames’ presence that the thought of having an outsider infiltrate their semi-peaceful dynamic, just barely managed to not freak Arthur out.

Besides, Eames was still a fuckin’ Brit and his captor… for all Arthur knew, the man could’ve had acted his way through the past month and now aimed to have some ‘friends’ over to torture him every way Arthur had heard but gladly never experienced before.   
The fact that there wasn’t much to do to ease his nerves except for actually ‘trusting’ the man on this one, just made the boy feel sick in the pit of his stomach. The last thing on this earth that he wanted was to actually put faith into Eames, to give up even more control than he already had…

The American feared his judgment was starting to cloud. His reasoning being smothered. As if soil was falling over his head, blinding him from the bad and choking him from the good. He had to keep a grasp on himself. Arthur knew he had to stand his ground, mentally, and never forget who he was and more so who Eames was.

Arthur was a ‘free bird’ and even if Eames was who he said he was, even if the man would keep him in a pretty cage with the best of food and the kindest of affection… Arthur still longed to - needed to - be free and fly. Something Eames could never give him. Something he’d never allow him.

 

 

 


	13. So How Did I End up so Deeply Involved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FFS YOU GUYS... over 200 kudo's, srsly? THANK YOU SO MUCH.  
> Couple of days ago I got this gorgeous review and then I went on tumblr and on my dash there was a post about my fic and I got kind anons telling me they're always looking forward to Still Ill's updates and I just...
> 
> Yeah, I was very happy that night.  
> Point being, thank you all, for loving this story and letting me know and see what happens when you rub me the right way?  
> Yeah that's right, quick update, innit!
> 
> I really enjoyed writing this chapter! I can promise it's A LOT better than the previous one *shudders*
> 
> OKAY. Go read and enjoy and thanks again!

  
**Part Twelve**   
_\- So How Did I End up so Deeply Involved -_   


  
Claiming that Eames was nervous about Saito’s upcoming visit would be an understatement. Even though the half-English-half-Japanese man was the one who’d taken Eames under his wing back when the latter had barely hit puberty, didn’t mean he actually went easy on him.

Saito was a no-arsing-around kinda fella, strict and rather brutal when he needed to be. If it weren’t for the fact that the older man had basically saved Eames from a premature death, the Brit would’ve believed Saito lacked any sense of empathy and compassion.

In contrary to the things Saito had done for Eames, his personality was cruel and his intentions barely possessed any warmth to them. The Colonel had, over the years, come to dislike his savior more and more as - over the years - said savior had sunken into a downward spiral more and more. But Saito’s leader position and the power he held in today’s war-occupied world reminded Eames he had to watch his step and preferably play safe around Saito were he to desire waking up without a limb or organ missing.

What made Eames shift in his seat - and fidget with the handle of the small knife hidden in his sleeve - though, was the knowledge of Saito’s objectification when it came to ‘pets’ and ‘slaves’. The half-Jap had been the one having demanded of Eames to get a human plaything in the first place, because frankly, he’d grown suspicious of Eames’ true warrior-spirit and ability to wrap his heart with a stone cold exterior when he didn’t even ‘own’ a human being for his pleasure.

“You’re nervous.” Arthur whispered next to him and Eames’ head snapped towards the kid who sat on a small cushion on the floor besides his chair. The boy frowned at him as he tilted his head curiously.

“Not a word.” The Brit hissed, placing a finger against his own lips as he shushed his ‘pet’. Arthur rolled his eyes before turning his head back and letting his gaze rest on his folded hands which rested in his lap.

It wasn’t a good sign at all that this young lad was aware of Eames’ nerves being on edge. The Colonel took a deep, calming breath and waited for Saito’s arrival in the humble dining room.

“I’m not hungry either.” Eames nearly jumped in his seat at the angry whisper besides him.

“Shut up, Arthur.”

“I mean -” He ignored Eames’ command.   
“- if you think I’m going to eat out of a bowl in front of whoever it is that is coming, you’re in fo-”

“Arthur, for the love of God if you don-” Eames very smoothly transitioned from ‘don’ to ‘good evening, Lord Saito’ within a split second when the door to the dining room opened for a tall, well-dressed Asian male to enter.

The Brit got up from his chair, faking stiffness and a suppressed groan when he did so, before literally throwing a leg over Arthur and walking towards his ‘boss’. Eames absolutely ignored the irritated huff from his ‘pet’ when he had to slightly dip his head to avoid being hit by Eames’ thigh.

Eames really did whish that Arthur wasn’t planning on acting up in Saito’s presence, he really hoped not because the Jap would expect thorough disciplining right away and if Eames would fail in doing just that… perhaps his boss would prefer to do it himself.  
After all, Saito stood a full rank above Eames and if he chose to do anything with or to Arthur… Eames couldn’t stop him.  
Luckily enough for the Brit, he was the Jap’s second-hand and though Saito may be strict (and a proper poofter, yeah), he still to some degree respected Eames enough to allow him his freedom-of-speech-and-opinions-differentiating-from-his-own.

“Still having trouble with that back of yours, hm Mr. Eames?” Saito’s voice was heavily coated with the Japanese accent he had refused to get rid off. If Yanks were proud, Japs were ridiculously fond of themselves. Even this half-blood who’d lived at least half of his life in England had chosen to revel in his Eastern roots.

“Getting old, init?” Eames joked before shaking the older man’s hand. His so-said back-injury was something he’d faked the past couple of years in order to fool possible enemies into believing he was crippled and thus an easy target… Of course, Eames was anything but that and a nemesis’ fooled judgment had saved the Brit’s life more than once.

“Likewise.” The half-foreigner grimaced, showing off a set of wrinkles before he walked towards the chair across from Eames’ at the other end of the table. Eames wasn’t at all pleased with the small size of the wooden furniture as he preferred more distance between such power play dinners as this one would surely become to be.

The Colonel this time chose to step around his pet before sitting down on his chair and scooting closer towards the table so he could rest his elbows on it.

“Cigar, Sir?” Eames asked as he slid a small wooden case across the table.

“Cuban, I might add.” Saito quirked a brow at that and smiled as he retrieved a cigar from the box.

“Lovely.” The older man noted, biting the edge off and Eames held out his Zippo so the man could light the brown fag.

They spent a few minutes in silence then, Saito smoking the cigar which scented of vanilla and tobacco whilst Eames instead optioned to chew feverishly on a toothpick. His mind was pleading for Arthur to keep quiet and sit still, which so far… seemed to be working.

“Is he English?” Saito asked then, eyes not once shifting towards the pet he was talking about. Eames’ boss found no need in respecting those who stood so much lower than him in the current hierarchy, thus let alone he’d ever address a pet or look at them unless for his own pleasure of witnessing eye-candy.

“He understands English.” Eames lightly answered.

“Is he English?” The man repeated, not easily mislead by Eames’ vagueness.

“I’m not sure, Sir. He can’t speak but he does understand our language.” Eames rolled the toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other while he watched Saito puff on the cigar, Asian eyes squinted so much that the Brit wasn’t sure if he was peering or thinking.

“He can’t speak, hm? Perhaps to hide an American accent, yes?” A smile played around his thin lips then and years of training his poker-face resulted in absolute absence of emotions and ticks on Eames’ face.

“Let’s hope not.” The Colonel smiled widely then and mentally wiped the sweat from his forehead when Saito returned the all-teeth grin. They laughed for a couple of seconds and Eames made sure to tap his foot on the floor when he saw Arthur shift in his peripheral vision. The Yank stiffened, most likely having understood the warning. Saito seemed to not have noticed anything of their word-lacking communication.

“ _Kirei na._ ” Saito continued in Japanese and Eames’ mind dived through its mental lingual cabinet before it scrambled up the broad knowledge of Japanese learnt years ago. The Brit then agreed to Saito’s compliment about Arthur being beautiful, and it didn’t take long before their conversation continued in fluent native Japanese from Saito and a bit more sturdier-tongued from Eames.

It took the Colonel approximately twenty-eight minutes to find out that Arthur to some degree understood Japanese. He first had grown suspicious of the multiple yawns from Arthur when Saito and himself had been discussing numerals and profits about the current war they were leading.  
But it had hit home though when the boy had stifled a snort with a cough at Eames’ attempt to tell a joke which didn’t really add up in Japanese as it did in English because of the pun.

Eames did not at all feel guilty for downright punching the boy on his back and ‘save’ him from his feigned choking.

Saito quirked a curious eyebrow at Arthur then, finally looking at the boy whom for the Jap stood the lowest of lows. The Yank wiped his mouth and when his eyes rolled up to look at the half-Asian, as he surely sensed eyes on him, Eames planted a firm hand on his skull and pushed his head back down.

“Bad boy.” He spoke calmly and Arthur dipped his chin meekly. Eames’ pulse increased at the thought of Saito having noticed what was going on (not at all did his heart skip a beat at the submissive behavior of his pet). If the man knew the boy actually understood some Japanese… they’d be in some trouble. Because even though Arthur wouldn‘t be able to do much with the information he‘d heard both men discuss, Saito would find it a big enough of an excuse to have the kid assassinated or, at the least, thoroughly beaten.   
But even if Saito did suspect Arthur‘s knowledge of the Japanese language, he didn’t act upon it just yet and instead chose to chuckle and focus his attention back onto Eames.

“Shall we eat?” Eames nodded almost appreciatively.

“I’ll have the food send in.” The Brit spoke, straightening in his seat and ignoring the sigh from Arthur which was only loud enough for Eames’ ears to capture.  
This was going to be an excruciatingly long night and he could only hope the Yank would hang in there without causing absolute chaos of apocalyptic measures… which didn’t seem unlikely.

* * *

 

“He doesn’t eat?” Eames looked up from his plate at Saito who had asked the question. Cautiously, the Brit allowed his gaze to travel towards Arthur who still sat next to him on the floor, full plate of dinner in front of him.

“Not unless commanded to.” The Colonel replied coolly, though the hairs on his neck rose at the interference of his boss. It was a blatant lie, though. Eames didn’t care much if Arthur would eat or not, he offered him food and it was the kid’s choice whether or not to devour it. A ‘true’ master wouldn’t allow its pet such freedom, though.  
Saito was talking a bit too much about Arthur, not to mention the amount of times he’d goggled the kid when thinking Eames hadn’t been looking, could not be counted on two hands alone, and this all made Eames’ senses prickle in attentive caution.

Saito fancied Arthur… Which was one of the most horrendous outcomes that could’ve spurted from out tonight.

“As it should be.” Saito simply mumbled before he looked back down at his plate and resumed eating. Eames all but glared at the older man and couldn’t stop himself from lowering a hand on his lap so he could squeeze his thigh, digging fingernails so deep that the pain momentarily distracted him from the desire to jump over the table and choke his boss.  
The strange sense of anger - possessiveness - was similar to what Eames had experienced about a month ago when Jack had been staring at his pet… Nonetheless, before Eames could do something as stupid as talking back at his boss, Arthur shifted besides him and the Brit tensed when he felt the boy’s shoulder bump lightly against the side of his leg.

Arthur kept a perfect poker-face and never so much as glanced at the Brit when said man looked at him from the corner of his eye. Nevertheless the message had been clear as day and Eames felt something inside of him weigh down heavily at the realization that the little Yank had just distracted him from an outburst. He’d anchored him away from the flaring rage, and it hadn’t been done accidentally.

“Is he tamed, Mr. Eames?” The Brit clenched his jaws at the question and he was certain that Arthur as well could feel the whole atmosphere fall down even more heavily upon their tired shoulders.

Though Saito was not one to beat around the bush… he did enjoy playing his cat-and-mouse games… Something Eames only enjoyed when being the feline rather than the rodent.

“Yes.” He murmured, focusing on his food as his fingernails dug deeper into his thigh.

“Then make him eat.” A long silence filled the room, a crackle of weighing out one-self’s chances of gaining the upper hand in the power-display between the two of them.  
Eames unclenched the hand on his thigh and instead chose to rest both of his palms on the table. Saito paused mid-bite at the thump of the Brit’s hands before looking up to meet Eames’ gaze.

“With all due respect, Lord Saito, my pet will eat when I desire him to.” The slight twitch of Saito’s left eyebrow notified Eames that he indeed had caught the emphasis the Brit had laid on the word ‘my’.

“That wasn‘t a suggestion, Eames…” The lack of ‘Mister’ wasn’t a good sign and the Brit clenched his teeth once more as he leaned back in his seat. Arthur seemed to subconsciously follow the movement, though far more subtle.

Though the Colonel would rather tell Saito to keep his mouth shut, he simultaneously was aware that he was threading on thin ice at the moment and any wrong step would descend him to drown in an ice-cold ocean. Saito obviously had some suspicions and doubts about Arthur’s tamed state and it was now Eames’ job to prove to his boss that the Yank indeed was a properly trained pet… which ironically, he wasn’t.

“Would you like for me to make him eat, Sir?” Nearly a minute of silence followed wherein Saito seemed to indulge on Arthur’s beauty with eyes alone and Eames had a hard time figuring out whether he’d prefer dragging the boy away from the hungry gaze or dragging his boss as far away from his pet as humanly possible. Either way the outcome was the same… Eames truly didn’t want Saito in Arthur’s presence, at all.

When Eames’ boss nodded curtly in agreement, the Brit held back a huff and slowly rose from his seat - feigned stiffness and groaning present-. He prayed towards the God he did not believe in, that Arthur would just bloody behave and do what he was told. Frankly, Eames feared his own reaction if Saito were to touch his pet. It could happen, simply because if the Yank wouldn’t obey, he’d indirectly allow the half-Jap to discipline him right on the spot and Eames was genuinely afraid he’d not be able to allow it, respect and ranks be damned.

But Arthur, bless him, kept his gaze down and never tilted his chin or turned to face Eames as he rounded the boy to stand in front of him. He knew the boy’s mind was racing as much as his own and could only hope they met somewhere on their subconscious path of communication.

The Brit placed hands on his hips, legs slightly spread, as he towered over the boy on the floor. Simply demanding of him to eat would not be enough for Saito. Eames was well aware that now was his moment to prove to his boss that he indeed was cold-hearted and strict enough to tame a young human being into absolute submission. More so, he needed to prove that there was no need for the older man to interfere, whatsoever.  
Arthur was his’. And his’ only… he’d be damned to share him with Lord Saito who - as many rumors confirmed - was very fond of physical abuse with his human sex-toys.

“Down.” Eames commanded. Arthur should be aware of what the simple demand meant, they’d gone through this countless times in the past month. Eames still carried a nasty scar on his shin where he’d tripped against his desk because Arthur had chosen he’d preferred tripping the man rather than running away from him because, quite frankly, Arthur didn’t do the ‘heel’ command as willingly as a dog.

The American shifted on his cushion and slowly lowered himself, bending forward until his tummy rested on folded legs and his head dipped against the floor between both of his palms flattened out on the wooden boards.   
If Eames hadn’t been so distracted by the current threat of his boss watching every move, he knew his chest would’ve grown warm with satisfaction to see the boy obey so flawlessly. Nonetheless, his heart did skip a beat at the soft thump when the kid’s forehead met the floor and signaled fulfillment of the ‘down’ position-and-command.

“Nape.” Eames softly spoke, his voice a tad too hoarse for anyone to believe he was left unaffected by Arthur’s obedience.   
The teen dipped his chin a bit more, curling the top of his spine and neck and the Brit quickly glanced towards his boss. Saito was leaning back in his seat, legs crossed as he patiently observed the scene in front of him, a thoughtful index finger brushing over lips.  
When the Colonel turned his attention back to his pet, he could see the boy bringing up a hand to the nape of his neck and stroking upwards slowly, tangling strands of pitch-black hair between his long fingers and baring the pale skin of his nape. Light, fuzzy hairs shone underneath the light bulb that hung low above them.

After a deep breath - which didn’t hitch, mind you - Eames pushed the bowl of food with the toe of his shoe towards his pet. The sound of metal scraping over wood was loud in the tense room.

“Sit!” Eames barked, using a lot more force in his voice just to prove to Saito that which wasn’t the truth. Arthur winced at the shout but rose, sitting himself back on his calves and resting hands on his thighs. The Brit’s sight wavered for a split second to the boy’s bared shoulder where the tad-too-large shirt’s collar had slipped off.

Eames took a step forward then, brown Oxfords framing the bowl of food, and bent over with a hand reaching out. Arthur winced, almost pulling away until he made himself freeze, before the man slowly dragged up the hem of the boy’s shirt to cover his shoulder.  
Eames made sure to tap his index finger twice on the kid’s neck - movement hidden from Saito with a cleverly lifted elbow blocking the man’s sight - in a semi-comforting way before he pulled back.

“Eat.” He commanded, rather anxious to see what Arthur would do with this new development within Saito’s company. Most surely the Yank had caught up with some of the tension weighing heavily upon the three of them. Eames could only hope now that his pet was bright enough to understand that Eames wasn’t the bad one in this, by far.

Arthur remained quiet for a moment, sitting completely still as he stared down on the bowl of food between the Brit’s feet. Eames could almost hear the little wheels turning in the kid’s head as he most likely was weighing his sense of pride against Saito’s likeability to hurt him without Eames’ interference nor his own ability to defend himself (Saito was twice the boy‘s size, not to mention, armed).

Except for that one time underneath the table, Arthur had not been commanded to eat without utensils ever again. Eames feared the boy would absolutely not desire a repetition of that ‘incident’, as you will, and would find no hesitation in rebelling his way out of it.

“Does he always take so long to follow orders, Mr. Eames?” Saito questioned and the Colonel glanced at the Jap to his right. Eames flashed his boss a cocky grin, then. A complete bluff from his side.

“I rather enjoy seeing how far my pet thinks he can go.” The older man quirked an eyebrow at the Colonel’s claim before he glanced over at Arthur who still sat on his calves, staring almost angrily at the food.

“You let him play you?” Saito frowned and Eames’ smile wavered before he dipped his chin and looked back down at his pet.

Arthur had scooted a bit closer towards Eames and the Brit mentally sighed in relief because the Yank seemed to finally understand what the Brit’s goal had been. With his back half turned towards Saito, his thigh and calve blocked most sight of Arthur from the Jap.

“Nah…” Eames muttered, his breath hitching when he met Arthur’s gaze through the boy’s messy fringe. The pet wasn’t smirking exactly, but the looseness around his lips and the glint in his eyes made Eames wonder how amused the boy actually was at that moment, as if he knew well enough he could ruin the Brit’s relationship with his boss within a split second.

He probably did realize just that and Eames felt his chest tighten not only with fear but as well with unhealthy and aroused curiosity.

Slowly, Arthur placed both hands on each of Eames’ Oxford-clad feet and it was a touch which the Brit hadn’t been expecting at all. He stared, almost as if in awe, as the American dug fingernails into his shoes so deep that it had to be done to ruin the expensive leather in a weak attempt of vengeance. Arthur bended down towards the bowl of food then, his fingers squeezing Eames’ feet tightly.

“Not at all…” Eames whispered with a thoughtful frown as he listened to Arthur chewing the food underneath him and looked down on the nape of his long neck.

“… It is I who play him.” The Colonel murmured, his voice certain though the words he’d spoken held little truth to the man himself.   
His heart which fluttered and his throat which went dry at the sight of the young boy so submissively eating his dinner in between his legs as fingers almost sensually kneaded the leather of Eames’ shoes, really did make the Brit question who exactly was playing who.

 


	14. Bigmouth Strikes Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there. 
> 
> I received some lovely reviews on here as well as on my tumblr and I've got to say... thank you sooooo bloody much.  
> If it weren't for you guys I would've thrown in the towel a long time ago! 
> 
> Check out some photosets I made for this fic at hardigan-miku.tumblr.com/tagged/stillill

  
**Part Thirteen**   
_\- Bigmouth Strikes Again -_   


Twenty-seven, twenty-eight? Perhaps even thirty… Either way, Arthur was pretty sure that Eames had paced the whole length of the room back and forth at least twenty-five times by now.  
The young boy shifted a bit on his pillow when Eames once again passed him by with long, angry steps.

The Brit muttered under his breath, fumbling with his pack of cigarettes whilst grinding teeth so harshly on his toothpick that Arthur actually heard it splinter. Eames paused as if the pick-massacre had woken him from a haze of strutted agitation.

After another growl he spat out the toothpick into the ashtray which he’d grabbed from his dresser, before slamming it back down on the wooden surface. Arthur quirked a brow when Eames glanced over his shoulder, looking at him. His back seemed broader than normal with him leaning over the dresser, hands planted firmly on its sides, shoulders pointed outwards.

“Do you speak Japanese, Arthur?” Eames’ voice trembled slightly, it wouldn’t have been noticeable were it not that Arthur had already learned a great part of the Brit’s warning signals for upcoming mayhem.  
Current horizon didn’t look promising at all. Eames was angry… pissed off.

“I don’t…” The American let the words hang as he shut his mouth tightly and hoped Eames wouldn’t have noticed the second part of the sentence missing. The Colonel’s shoulders tensed for a second before his eyes drifted to somewhere behind Arthur in a stare. The slow, half-blink was the dead give-away that the Colonel currently busied himself biting back rage.

Arthur shifted awkwardly on his pillow, hands in his lap and fingers fumbling with the hem of his shirt.

“You don’t ‘speak’ Japanese but you do understand it.” Eames’ voice was too soft now, an eerie contrast with the bulk trembling underneath suspenders, dress-shirt and too well-fitting pants. Arthur sensed the upcoming danger, his instincts telling him to brace himself in any way possible.

He slowly started to get up from his pillow on the floor but plumped back down resolutely when the Brit barked a loud ‘ _Sit!_ ’ at him. The pause that followed prickled the atmosphere as if a storm filled with electricity had just cascaded upon them and Arthur had to take a deep breath to will his body to stay seated on the pillow.

“It’s not my fault I understand it.” The boy frowned, not being able to keep his darn mouth shut, even though he knew well enough that he was making matters worse. Eames turned around then and walked towards him with long, cat-like strides.

“I-I don’t even understand that much of it.” Arthur continued, anxiety rapidly growing when Eames stalked towards him slowly, jaws clenched and eyes flaring with an emotion the boy couldn’t place but assumed of it to be rage.

“I mean I just know basics, hello’s and goodbye’s and-” When Eames tutted and rose his hand, pointing up his index-finger in a signal for Arthur to be quiet, the boy shut his mouth so harshly that his teeth clacked. Still, he continued to glare as much as he could with the current shameful fear coursing through his system. He wouldn’t back down. Well… not fully.

Who did this man think he was? Dragging Arthur along to private dinner-parties, making him eat out of a bowl in front of a perverted Jap and then getting frustrated at him simply because he was bright enough to understand the Japanese tongue.

To the American it made little to no sense. To him it sounded unfair if not hypocritical.

“You actually understand Japanese and you never once thought about telling me this?” The Colonel asked, face still blank and voice suspiciously calm as he came to a stop in front of the pet. Arthur craned his neck and the back of his head bumped against the bed’s foot-end behind him as he looked up to meet the Brit’s eyes.

“You never asked.” He breathed slowly, fingers curling into the pillow’s thick material as he slowly brought up his legs and bent his knees, making sure he could lash out and kick Eames in the shins if necessary.

“I never asked.” Eames repeated mockingly, his face scrunched into annoyance as he looked away for a moment, the fingers on his right hand twitched momentarily, a little tick Arthur had come to notice over the past couple of weeks. Though Arthur didn’t yet know what it meant, he was pretty sure it was a subdued desire for snapping necks.

It didn’t take long before the Eames seemed to have grasped some self-control before once again he towered over Arthur, standing with legs slightly spread and hands on hips as he leaned over the boy on the floor.

“Half of England’s population exists of Japanese, donit?”

“Well, more enough reason for you to have figured out I know some of the language, no?” Arthur regretted his words immediately after he’d said them. Eames’ face seemed to freeze, his pupils seemed to dilate for a moment, but it was hard to tell in the - already poor excuse for - lighting in the room.

The boy crawled farther back, his spine straightened against the leg of the bed behind him. Arthur had a pretty good idea of what was going on. Eames was pissed off, either at Saito or himself (most likely both) and Arthur was the only one to vent at. The American frowned at the realization whilst remembering the rules of their relationship clashing hard with the current fight.

 _‘Your obedience for my care and protection.’_ Those words had been said by Eames, literally, and though he hadn’t exactly worded ‘fairness’, Arthur knew this should be included if Eames ever desired for him to come to trust him and thus obey blindly.

Nevertheless, Arthur wasn’t planning on doing just that… Especially now that the Brit was proving himself wrong and Arthur right on the unstated facts about his true nature.   
Arthur had obeyed him, flawlessly so, during Saito’s visit… and yet here he was, dissing him like a little boy. The adolescent fluently ignored his own big mouth being reason for the current tense happening.

“Would you like to repeat that, Arthur love?” Eames rose a brow as he asked the question and in the back of the kid’s mind a little sigh of relief sounded because of the Brit’s facial tick. Arthur would rather have the Brit frown or snarl than seeing him with such a blank expression he’d carried only seconds ago.  
The true meaning of this did upset him as well. The meaning being that Arthur by now knew Eames enough to be aware of his tick nerveux and actually feeling more at ease by some of those. Whereas he’d tried so hard to never feel comfortable around the Brit, never trust him, soothing facial expressions be damned.

Nonetheless, for the moment, the Colonel was still very agitated and the boy took a deep breath before he answered his ‘master’.

“No.” The adolescent spoke, voice far more calm than he actually felt. Eames repeated him, though he mouthed the word soundlessly rather than speak out loud, and full lips curved into a smug smirk.  
Eames smoothly lowered himself on the back of his heels, face eyelevel with Arthur.

“Repeat it.” Long fingers curled slowly into the boy’s hair and Arthur’s survival-instinct rushed into gear with endorphins when Eames closed his hand into a fist, pulling the kid’s head back. He knew he’d remember this moment for many years to come, being one of utter shame because of the loud whimper that slipped from his lips at Eames’ action of grabbing his hair.  
The Colonel’s gaze shifted towards Arthur’s craned throat before they rolled back up to meet the other’s eyes.

“Repeat the ‘no’, or repeat that which had to be repeated previously?” Arthur knew he was being a brat, he knew that he was grinding the Brit’s gears and this could-would all turn very ugly for him. That being said, Arthur simply couldn’t stop himself. His instincts which told him to behave and/or run never outshone the foolish pride urging him to have the last word and show this enemy he would never go down without a fight (no matter how childish said fight would be, no matter how grim outcome would be).

It was only when Eames patted his cheek a tad too harshly with his free hand, that Arthur remembered to take a shuddering breath and question his tactics with it.

“Look at you…” Eames murmured, eyes slowly scanning every inch of the kid’s face. When the grip on his hair tightened, Arthur hissed and shifted awkwardly. The boy was panting softly, chest heaving with the tightness of fear and anger.

“I see right through you, little boy. Don’t play games.” The man seemed to be waiting for an answer and Arthur gulped audibly. His whole body trembled, his mind and guts screaming to either be quiet or kick the Brit in the exposed groin and run for the hills. As the boy’s eyes had glanced down shortly at the man’s said exposed groin, Eames tightened his grip and tugged harshly, nudging Arthur to look back into his gray eyes.

“I’m not the one playing games.” The pet hissed and Eames’ face remained blank, though his eyes had narrowed so subtly that the kid wouldn’t have seen it were he not have been looking as closely as he had.

“You’re taking it out on me.” Arthur continued, his neck aching because the Brit still held his hair in a vice-grip, craning his neck and revealing his throat. Even though the grinding of his teeth could be heard loud and clear in the tense silence between the two, Eames didn‘t talk, allowing Arthur without words to continue.

“I didn’t do anything wrong. I behaved… I could’ve acted up and screwed you over in front of that man who obviously holds some power over you.”

“You think he holds power over me?” Eames’ laughed without humor. Arthur nodded, though squeezed his eyes shut at the sting of his hair being pulled. Eames once again patted him twice on the cheek, making the boy flinch and gasp.

“You think you know what was going on just now?” His voice rose, rumbling through the kid’s chest, and the hand in his hair tugged harder, snapping back his head so violently that Arthur feared he’d be aching for days to come.

Yet, Arthur understood that he was not supposed to answer this question, not that he’d have an answer to it that wouldn’t piss the Brit off, anyways. Eames hummed in approval when the American stayed quiet. Arthur obviously had misjudged Eames’ calm and when his cheek started to burn because of the Brit’s earlier assault, he sunk the top-row of his teeth into his lip and demanded of himself to swallow down any words that wanted to rise.

Now, obviously, wasn’t the time to have a big mouth.

“I’m not going to discuss with you, the power-dynamic between Lord Saito and myself. But, rest assured that, I could get rid of you any time for any reason and I promise you, …” Arthur bit back a whimper when Eames’ free hand rested itself loosely around his exposed throat, his thumb brushing the soft patch underneath his jaw.

“my dearest Pet, that…” Eames inched closer, the palm of his hand pressing a bit more firmly against the American‘s Adam‘s Apple while his hot breath fanned out over the kid’s face. Arthur vaguely noted that he scented of tobacco and mint.

“- death would be a far better outcome than to be thrown on the streets only to be captured again by far more cruel men who crave far much more from a beautiful, young body such as yours.” Eames’ hand around his throat squeezed a bit more firmly and Arthur collected all his willpower to not bring up his hands to grab the Brit’s wrists… somehow he suspected that defending himself would only make matters worse.  
After a minute long gaze the boy closed his eyes when it was apparent that Eames wasn’t going to back down if his pet didn’t subdue. The Colonel hummed and the grip on his throat slacked. Arthur on his turn let out a slow breath, wondering about the fluttering in his stomach being only of fear.

“You’ve been a good boy, Arthur… That much I am willing to admit. Nonetheless you need to learn to put a sock in it from time to time, especially when I’m as agitated as I am now. I only asked you a simple question, either you reply without being a twat, or you shut up.” After a moment Eames released Arthur and rose back to his feet. The American let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, before his eyes fluttered open to look at the man towering over him, once more.

“Is that understood, Pet?” Arthur licked his dry lips as he bravely held the man’s gaze and he didn’t miss how the Colonel’s eyes followed the movement of his tongue. It was a detail which Arthur stored in the back of his mind for future-blackmail-material. After all, it was not completely unobvious that Eames to some degree enjoyed Arthur’s looks.

The American wasn’t sure what had stopped Eames up till now to take what obviously belonged to him; being Arthur himself. Perhaps the teenager was being a bit vain, misjudging the Brit’s intense stares and teasing smirks for sexual interest rather than degrading amusement. Or maybe Eames was waiting for the right time, just not feeling like bothering to play with a body that surely would put up a fight.

The last option though, which Arthur chose never to believe - let alone consider -, was that the English man had moral standards… That he actually did want Arthur in the most intimate ways, physical-wise, but refused to act upon ‘want’ simply because of the lack of consent from the kid’s side.

If that would be the case… Arthur would have less reason to hate the one that took his freedom. And if he’d come to lack any spite for his capturer, then what would be the use of fighting?

“Yes.”

“Yes whom?”

“Yes, Sir.” Eames flashed him a cold smile which didn’t meet his gray eyes before abruptly turning around on the back of his heels and leaving the bedroom, locking the door securely behind his back.

It wasn’t until replaying the fight for the hundredth time in the following hours left alone, that Arthur had to admit the discussion had been his own fault.   
Eames had asked him simple questions and Arthur - bratty attitude be damned - had attacked with witty sarcasm, aimed to piss off the man and then blame him for it.

And only a few hours of reassembling his guilt, he realized that it wasn’t a good sign at all that he was starting to see Eames as the reasonable good guy and himself as the bratty teen acting up and making things difficult between the two of them.

Arthur didn’t catch any sleep that night and was already prepared for being left alone for at least twenty-four hours as an unspoken way of punishment.  
His gut wrenched and his mind spun with contradictions and confusion as he lied limply on his pillow on the floor. The pit in his stomach and the lump in his throat held odd familiarities to years ago when he’d been taken away from his mother. In the dark of the bedroom Arthur tried to figure out what similarities there were to have him feel the disgusting nostalgic grief after years of denial.

Something had made him tick. Eames had hit a nerve, or perhaps Arthur had been the one playing one of his own nerves. Either way, foundations had been shook and the boy felt himself standing unsteadily, ready to tip over the edge into a destination unknown.

For the first time in years, Arthur wasn’t sure anymore who he was or what he stood for.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lovely big thank you to my English friend Chloe (merry-chases @ tumblr) for helping me with inspiration and ideas. Also happy to say I will be travelling to England in September and meeting this lovely twat of mine!


	15. Is it Strange to Dance so Soon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'ello, lovelies.
> 
> I'd like to thank you guys for enjoying my story and I must say that a couple of splendid reviews left me in awe.  
> This chapter wasn't going to be updated today if it weren't for some lovely feedbacks and three cups of coffee.
> 
> Also, I'm going to London this Tuesday!!!  
> I live in Belgium (does anyone even know about Belgium) and this actually is my first trip EVER in 24 years!  
> It's greatly thanks to my lovely friend Chloe (merry-chases @ tumblr and snowysootsprites @ AO3) because if it weren't for her joining me on the trip, I'd still be sitting home being scared to roam a different country on my own.
> 
> Okay, I hope you enjoy this chapter because I've spent all day procrastinating and crying over it.

  
**Part Fourteen**   
_\- Is it Strange to Dance so Soon -_   


  
Eames had originally planned to have a word with his pet. He’d been fuming at Arthur’s arrogance which shone through all of his anxiety and worry. The Brit had semi-threatened the kid with possible abandonment, not to mention he’d slapped him on the cheek a couple of times… It hadn’t been full-blown strikes, yet it still made the moral side of his heart ache for having hurt such a young boy for no other reason than a big mouth.

This night, well over twenty hours from having locked up Arthur as he’d left him on his own, Eames had been looking forward to strut back into his bedroom and immediately shout for Arthur to sit, or stand - whatever the kid’s initial position would not be -.   
Afterwards he’d planned to bark commands, scowl and more so make sure that Arthur understood that he was Eames’ and should start respecting the man who’d quite frankly been as generous to allow him to live by his side rather than on the streets. Not to mention that he hadn’t so much as touched the child in any inappropriate sexual manner, something that should never be taken for granted in this day and age.

But as Eames entered his bedroom, peeling off his thick double-breasted coat which still carried glossy pearls of rain from outside, the irrational desire to fight vanished immediately.

“Arthur…” The Colonel whispered the boy’s name as his eyes spotted his frail, naked body standing in the farthest corner of the bedroom. Whilst rolling his toothpick between full lips, Eames flicked on the light and carelessly tossed his heavy coat on the nearby dresser, his visor-hat followed suite.

“Arthur?” He repeated the name a bit louder this time, taking long and hurried strides towards his pet who slumped - rather than stood - against one side of the corner’s floral-papered wall.   
When he neared him, he noticed the slight trembling in Arthur’s body. Shivers rolled down his spine as his knees bucked every now and then, his breathing wasn’t exactly labored but neither was there a consistent rhythm in it. For a split second Eames feared pneumonia but his gut told him else wise.

Eames didn’t bother repeating the boy’s name, he obviously couldn’t or wouldn’t hear him, and instead optioned to rest a light hand between his protruding shoulder-blades. Absently the Brit grimaced and noted that he should stop starving the kid as way of punishment.

Arthur didn’t tense, not exactly. His body just seemed to slump further into the wall, weight caving underneath the feathery weight of the Brit’s palm. With a barely audible groan, Arthur buried his face in the corner, turning his body away from his master’s.   
It was an ironic relief to see the adolescent’s instinct to flee being strong enough to act against the drowsy state his mind was in.

“Did you go ahead and punish yourself, Arthur?” Eames whispered with a fondness in his voice he believed to have been bluffed. His muscular body subconsciously drew nearer to the much smaller one, boxing the pet into the corner.

“How long have you been standing here, hm?” The shiver that rolled down the kid’s spine this time didn’t seem to be of fatigue alone. The Brit assumed, with hinted perversion, that Arthur’s body coiled and curled only because of the heath of Eames’ body behind him as well as the voice rasping into his ear. Arthur feared him, no matter his arrogance and big mouth, he was afraid.

After another chew or two on his toothpick, the Colonel stroked up the kid’s back, from shoulder blades to the nape of his neck, squeezing comfortingly.

“Such a good boy, Arthur. Such a bloody well-behaved pet, aren’t ya?” Eames held his breath while his fingers stroked up, burying themselves in the thick hair, scratching Arthur’s scalp slowly.

Whatever it had been, soothing Arthur into this timid uncharacteristic mood, the Brit wasn’t one to complain. In contrary, it was a lovely sight to behold, his heart leaped in his chest at the promises of having a tamed Arthur, ready to obey without any snarled comments.

“How long have you been standing in the corner?” The Brit asked softly into the boy’s ear while allowing his torso to lean in a bit closer, for the sake of warming the shivering pet with his body heath.   
Arthur flattened himself against the wall, crawling away from Eames, while softly humming. The older man got distracted from Arthur’s cinnamon-ish scent only because of the hum which actually sounded much more like a growl.

“Answer me, Arthur.” With a pinch in the nape of the boy’s neck, Eames brought Arthur’s attention back and the kid seemed to jump awake for a second.

“Long.”

“How long?” Eames pulled away from Arthur then, before leaning a shoulder against the wall next to him, hunching shoulders and tipping forwards so he could watch the kid’s face.   
The American’s gaze shifted towards the man next to him before his eyes lowered back to the floor.

“I couldn‘t sleep…so I got back up and so… hours… probably.” He shrugged, seemingly getting embarrassed now his mind was actually waking. His words were thick and a tad incoherent, muttered rather than claiming.

“Oh Pet.” Eames smiled, patting a hand on the boy’s head before pushing off the wall and allowing some distance between their bodies.   
The Brit felt disgruntled, his palms were sweaty and his breathing shallow with an unease he couldn’t quite pinpoint but certainly had something to do with the boy’s scent, skin and soft hair.

Chewing on the toothpick with the amount of animosity an inanimate object could never deserve, Eames rubbed his clammy hands on his green trousers before retrieving his coat which he’d discarded over his dresser earlier.

“Come.” He called, facing Arthur who still stood slumped and shivering in the corner of the room. It took the kid at least a couple of minutes before he finally braced a long-fingered hand against the wall and turned around stiffly.

Eames bravely kept his gaze focused on Arthur’s face and not anywhere lower. The boy’s chin was dipped to his chest with his fringe covering most of his forehead and eyes. Eames scowled at himself for still not having had the Yank’s hair cut.

When Arthur stood in front of his ‘master’, the Brit wrapped the large coat around his naked frame and guided him outside of the bedroom with a light hand between his shoulders.

Whilst they walked through the hallways, Eames noted that Arthur was being exceptionally timid, if not the most subdued he’d been so far (when not in a well-behaved-session of punishment). He looked tired - the Brit noticed as he observed the kid from his peripheral vision - and very cold. Arthur’s teeth clacked and the bags underneath his eyes seemed to darken by the minute.  
The boy still dutifully walked next to Eames, subconsciously staying half a step behind his master, before he yawned and hugged the heavy coat more tightly around his shoulders, dipping his nose in the collar.

“It smells like you.” Arthur muttered and Eames snorted at the annoyed tone in the kid’s voice. Precious little Arthur, never too sleepy or battered to not badmouth his ‘savior’.

“I don’t like it.” He complained, trying halfheartedly to rebel, even though it was obvious that all the boy wanted at that moment was warmth and a bed.

“Well, get used to it, Pet. My scent is the only one you’ll be smelling for a long time.” Eames cocked a brow at Arthur as he looked over at him, grinning around his toothpick. Arthur glared drowsily, somehow his hair had become a mess because of slumbering against a wall (Eames childishly ignored the possibility of his scalp-massaging fingers having been responsible for ruffling the kid’s hair).

“Whatever.” With another huff, Arthur nuzzled the warm coat which bound to still radiate some of Eames’ body heath. The Colonel fluently disregarded the fact that the black of the fabric contrasted gorgeously with the paleness of the boy’s thighs, as well did he ignore the unfamiliar warmth coiling inside of him. 

* * *

 

“Eat.” Eames frowned at the boy who sat at the dinner table and was taking turns in glaring at his plate and then at the Brit. His hair was still wet from the warm bath he’d taken only half an hour ago and Eames stroked a hand through the strands for the fifth time that night. As he’d done with each previous touch, Arthur flinched as the man’s large hand swiped back his fringe, revealing the youthful face with sharp bone-structure and dark eyes.

The Colonel had somehow feared yet expected this day to come. Arthur had broken for a part, had realized that he was starting to cave and with that had figured out a neat technique to gain some control over his being and health.

A bloody hunger-strike.

“Eat.” The Brit repeated, his thighs flexing when his body pleaded for him to get up from the chair and walk across the table towards the kid. Arthur had been glaring at him venomously even after the lovely bath he’d gotten, which had been a treat for the kid having punished himself with corner time during Eames‘ absence.

Regardless of the gradation of Arthur’s current stubbornness, it was clear something had snapped and something had very much changed not only with himself, but more so in between the two.  
Arthur, now dressed in only an oversized navy-blue shirt, didn’t move a muscle. His hands were folded neatly beneath the table on his lap, his back was straight, his jaw set and eyes burning into Eames’.

“No sleep until you eat, Arthur.” Eames calmly spoke, though his annoyance was flaring as much as his nostrils. After another minute or two, the Brit confirmed to himself that not only was the kid on a hunger strike, but as well was refusing to say a word.  
For having been such a good boy, only hours ago… he sure as hell was back to being one hell of a little twat.

“You don’t want to sleep?” As he lit a cigarette, he watched Arthur closely through half lid eyes. The Yank blinked slowly, almost mockingly, but didn’t make a sound.

“I see.” The Brit murmured to himself, grimacing with humoristic flare as he rose from his seat. Arthur stirred, which pleased Eames’ agitation thoroughly.

As Eames rounded the table, dragging slowly from his cigarette while he thumbed his suspenders off his shoulders, he tried to reason with his subconscious that the heath in his tummy was not caused by any sexual stimuli whatsoever.   
He was angry, tired and just excited for a fight because he knew the outcome would be him taming Arthur, making Arthur realize he had to be a good boy for the sake of his own protection and comfort. And once he realized as so, the weight on Eames’ shoulders would finally be lifted because he’d no longer feel as if being the cause of this boy’s kidnapping and misery rather than his guardian.

Arthur was a challenge and would always remain as one, no matter how subdued. In turn, Eames’ hunger for excitement and change lapped at the new wounds appearing with the boy’s arrival in his life.

It was a dance of contradictions, nonetheless a dance neither of them could just pause or skip from.

Allowing his hip to lean against the tableside, Eames then crossed his arms and looked down at the boy sitting gingerly on the chair next to him. Arthur peeked up, not tilting his head, and sprouting a lovely set of forehead creases as his brow lifted.

“Eat or get fed, what’s it gonna be, Darling boy?” The Brit watched Arthur cringe in his seat, the hands on his naked thighs folding into fists and he asked himself absently whether the nervous body language was because of the threat or the nickname.

But Arthur shook off the uncertainty that had been obvious on his face and in his body, for the sake of tipping back his head and shooting daggers at his master with blown pupils alone.

“Fuck off.” Eames lifted an eyebrow at that and took a long drag from the fag between his lips.

“Right, that’s it.” The Brit muttered, pressing out his cigarette in an ashtray on the table, his hands already trembling, heart beating fast.  
Arthur got about halfway through rising from his seat before Eames curled his fingers in the collar of his shirt and pulled him off completely. The boy gasped, long limbs stumbling as the Colonel twirled him around before pulling his back flat against his chest.

With a firm hand restraining both the kid’s wrists in between their bodies and another one on his throat in order to crane his neck and allow the back of his head to dip into the Brit‘s shoulder, Eames then lowered his head and sniffed Arthur’s damp hair just for the sake of intimidating him (and hopefully some bonus-added-annoyance). And rightly so, the kid stirred before straining his neck as he tried to pull his head away from the man’s nose.

“Used the cinnamon shampoo, did ya?” Eames murmured teasingly, his thumb stroking ironically soothing swipes next to his Adam‘s Apple. Nonetheless he desired to shake his pet thoroughly and shove him back in a corner.

Instead, he chose to take a few steps back until the back of his knees hit the chair gently. Arthur huffed to hide a mewl as Eames plumped down on the seat with the kid on his lap.  
Whilst ignoring the boy’s struggle and murmured insults, Eames let go of his throat and wrapped his now free arm around Arthur’s waist, his other hand still occupied with holding bony wrists. What followed after that was strategically locking his lower legs over the boy’s shins and pulling them apart and back, the result restraining Arthur on the man’s lap with not much choice other than wriggle around ineffectively.

It didn’t take too long before the Yank figured out that wiggling and shifting around wasn’t going to do any good and thus the presumed disgust of the physical closeness to his enemy, kicked in.

Arthur sucked in his stomach whilst his back tried to arch away from Eames’ chest when the Brit wrapped his strong arm around the kid’s waist more tightly. With a smirk, the Colonel reveled in the little huffs and puffs falling from the pet’s lips as he tried desperately to create a distance between himself and Eames who’d by now had cleverly ‘surrounded’ him with chest and limb.

A skipped beat of his heart notified Eames that he should stop Arthur from wriggling in his lap because quite frankly, he was only a man, and physical stimulation from the kid’s little arse on the bulge in the man’s trousers was ‘asking for it’.

Though the knowledge of going through early arousal by the ‘hands’ of a teenage boy, who he was holding hostage as a pet, came as a surprise and more so shock… Eames hadn’t come this far in life and hadn’t survived for this long if it weren’t for the ability to hide, manipulate, bluff and blatantly ignore his own emotions and impulses.

“Behave.” Eames muttered calmly, clenching his arm around the boy’s waist and pulling him a bit more close against his chest. Arthur’s back was one stiff line of tense muscle.

The Colonel then proceeded with grabbing the fork from the table and scooping some of the now-cold meal on it.

“Don’t you d-” Arthur hissed but interrupted his own warning with closing his mouth abruptly as Eames maneuvered the food towards it. The Brit’s fingers wrapped around Arthur’s wrists, tightened firmly, bruising the skin with not much effort.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” He asked mockingly into his ear, pulling back with a frown when the boy snapped his head aside in a very similar fashion to the failed reverse-headbut still clear in the Brit’s memory.

When Eames paused with the fork held mid-air, Arthur sat still immediately though his arms were flexing as well were his thighs on the Colonel’s lap.

Eames took a couple of deep breaths, closing his eyes and trying to collect his emotions which seemed scattered all over the place; very unlike him. He had to calm down, he could not lose self-control over a sixteen-year old, bratty Yank.  
Not after the four weeks of having built some positive relationship, having urged the boy to trust him to treat him kind… or at least to not treat him bad.

When, after a couple of minutes, the Colonel refocused on the long-term goal of having Arthur live alongside him happily and mainly subdued, he opened his eyes and allowed the grip on Arthur’s wrists to slacken a tad.

“Are you gonna eat?”

“N-no.” Arthur stuttered, seemingly taken aback by Eames’ calm and change of heart. He’d been quiet throughout Eames’ silence but obviously hadn’t expected the current outcome.  
The Brit smiled softly, ignoring the vain agitation whirling in his chest and instead embracing the cozy warmth simmering underneath. He was surprised at the speed in which his pet had picked up on his eased down body-language, which had been the cause of his current confusion and apprehension of what was going to happen.

“Why?” A silence followed and Eames thought about how to receive a positive outcome for the both of them. After all, even though Arthur had been an annoying twat once more… He still had been a lovely boy earlier today and Eames was pretty much convinced that managing Arthur with a soft hand and positive feedback (off-swayed with occasional intimidation to keep him in order) would result the best outcome in the long run.

“I’m not hungry.” Arthur lied blatantly and Eames tutted, lowering the fork back on the plate.

“You haven’t eaten in over twenty-four hours. Don’t lie to me.” Eames absently dipped his nose in the kid’s hair, smelling him slowly. Though Arthur felt stiff on his lap, he didn’t move away and as Eames allowed him time to consider whether to answer truthfully or lie some more, he rested his forehead on the crown of the kid’s head.

“Be honest, Arthur. Stop trying to fight and defend the pride that has no use in these whereabouts or my company. Don‘t feel guilt for having enjoyed your bath, ‘t was a treat, there‘s no shame to it. You‘ve got nothing to prove, nor lose.” The Yank weakly dipped his chin to his chest, causing Eames to pull back his own head and sit up straight.

“I’m starving.” Eames smiled at the whisper and his heart leaped at the gentle tone in the boy’s voice. It was because of the submission, it was because Eames had won this round, because Arthur was caving…

Not at all did the fluttering in his chest have anything to do with the boy’s lovely scent, beautiful voice nor the warm comforting weight of his small body on Eames’ lap.

“Alright,” He began as he picked up the fork and scooped a new bite onto it before lifting the utensil to the boy’s face.

“- open wide.”


	16. Love, Peace and Harmony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, you guys!
> 
> Just returned from my trip to London (with Merry-Chases @ tumblr / Snowysootsprites @ AO3)  
> And glad to say I'm completely inspired for my fic! I wrote this chapter in one go, today, and already started on the next chap.
> 
> Again a big and lovely thank you for all those who reviewed, I appreciate it so much and please continue to motivate me and tell me what you think.
> 
> Enjoy the chapter and see you soon!

  
**Part Fifteen**   
_\- Love, Peace and Harmony -_   


Hunger had never quite been a priority to Arthur. He’d been excellent at ignoring the growling of his cramping stomach, desperately kneading itself as if trying to find some remainders of food in the acid.  
Sure enough, the boy had experienced the difficulty falling asleep on an empty stomach, as well had he suffered his fatigue dropping along with blood pressure until passing out had been inevitable on multiple occasions in the past.

But he’d rolled with the punches. Running and hiding had always been more important than nurturing himself (even when he had a clear mind and knew damn well that food was a necessity for having his legs carry him and his brain tell him where to hide).

The moral of Arthur’s three-years-on-the-streets story was that; food had never been an issue… Or at least, not quite the issue it was being now.

As his small teeth grinded the delicious cold food which had been inserted into his mouth with the fork held in Eames’ hand, Arthur had to admit he was starving to the point where he’d pretty much compliment the Brit’s disgusting side-comb for the sake of a meal.

After all, he was sitting meekly on the man’s lap at this point and he didn’t even bother arching his back away from the warm chest behind him. Arthur wouldn’t go as far as claiming he was comfortable but he could very well admit to himself that hunger and lack of sleep had made him weak.

Perhaps it was because he knew what he could get. Being aware he could have proper meals because of Eames’ rank and their relationship (no matter how disgusting said relationship tainted the American’s conscience) made it all the much harder to fight his hunger and maintain stubbornness.

He’d been living with this Brit for about a month now - though it was a lucky guess since he couldn’t tell day from night and purely had to figure it out by Eames’ work schedule - and he’d eaten more food than would be considered healthy for a body having starved for years.  
Arthur was glad the days of stomachaches and eerie sensation of being too full had long passed, his body now craving the delicious nutrition it’d been lacking for ages.

Nonetheless, Arthur should’ve been stronger. The promise of food shouldn’t allow him to sink back into this man’s chest and allow him to feed him like a little child, cooing praises into his ear which contrasted ironically with the iron grip which Eames still was practicing on Arthur’s wrists.

It was just for now, Arthur told himself. Just ten minutes of submission for the sake of food… That wasn’t such a bad deal, was it?

When Arthur nodded at another full fork hovering in front of his face in a requested offer, he blatantly refused to remember that he’d spent twenty-four hours standing in a corner for punishment.  
And when he did remember, he told himself it was to repent his teenage idiocy, it was for fooling Eames, it was for the lovely bath and the delicious food.

It wasn’t, one-hundred percent was not, because Arthur felt an inexplicable need to satisfy his ‘master’ and be a ‘good boy’.

* * *

 

A couple of hours later, Arthur nuzzled his nose in the blanket which had been neatly tucked around his shoulders by no other than the Colonel himself. He stared into the darkness of the bedroom, his body seeming to sink deeper into the pillow alongside the drowsiness which tugged at his eyelids every other couple of seconds.

Arthur had eaten the whole meal, chewing faster than had been necessary as if in doubt that Eames wouldn’t pull the plate back away from him. After all, if the Brit chose to, Arthur would starve to an early death in these… dungeons. There was no way to escape, let alone fend for himself and find food.

Afterwards, Eames had allowed Arthur to get up from his lap and they’d walked to the bedroom together. The silence between them had been awkward, both lost in thought and not talking for their own reasons.

While the adolescent had kept his jaws clenched because he’d felt embarrassed and upset by his own lack of spirit, Eames’ reasoning was still completely unknown to Arthur. Perhaps the man had allowed him this silence, perhaps it was another ‘treat’ to not mock him or tease him… to just leave him alone as he’d led him to their bedroom.

Arthur grimaced at the thought of the Colonel carrying any kindness in his bulky-long-legged frame.

Instead the American squeezed his eyes shut, blocking any images of how Eames had literally tucked him in with a smile and a pat on the head only about an hour and half ago. He’d left straight after that, explaining to the kid that he still had work to do… as if Arthur was interested in any of that. As if the boy was looking forward to his return…

Arthur huffed, disregarding the dull ache in his wrists which were cuff-free but starting to bruise because of Eames’ vice grip on them earlier today.

Yet, in contrary to what he’d predicted, Arthur fell asleep right away when closing his eyes, his tummy full with food and his muscles relaxed by the earlier hot bath. His conscience went along with it, taking a break from scolding Arthur for taking so many uncharacteristic decisions lately which honestly could end up confusing either Arthur or Eames from the truth… if not both.

* * *

 

_He was back home. He couldn’t believe it._

_Arthur blinked several times, rubbing his knuckles over his eyelids before glancing back into the direction where the subject of said unbelievability lied._

_“I thought they killed you.” The teen spoke, scraping his throat afterwards to increase volume for his next words._

_“I thought you were gone forever.” His mother smiled at his words, her eyes a bit sad and her face looking more worn than it had been three years ago when Arthur had last seen her._

_“You’ve grown.” She said, tilting her head sideways as she took in his slender frame with kind eyes. Arthur giggled uncharacteristically, his system bordering onto insanity as utter relief and happiness washed over him._

_“Yeah. Been three years after all.” Arthur pointed out, patting hands on his chest as if to check how much he’d grown over noted period of time._

_“Well, I’m glad to see Mr. Eames is taking good care of you.” Arthur snapped his head back up and the shattering sound of a cup of tea falling to floor (a cup which he didn’t even realize he’d been holding; he wasn’t even fond of tea) made him jump and gasp._

_“Y-you know about him?” He asked bewildered. His mother frowned for a second before nodding._

_“Of course I do, Darling. I couldn’t just leave you on your own, could I?” As he suppressed the shiver that desired to roll down his spine at the fond nickname, Arthur tried to make sense of what his mother had just told him._

_“You- wait. I don’t understand-” She smiled at his confusion and beckoned him over to have a seat at their kitchen table. Arthur was surprised to see they were at their home in the States and with nostalgic grief he glanced at the kitchen window through which he’d seen his father come back from his army missions many times before… Up until they’d received the letter of condolences from the USA ambassador._

_With a grimace, Arthur lowered himself on the chair next to his mother and sighed when she wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer until he tipped his head to rest on her shoulder._

_“He’s not that bad, Arthur.” She tutted._

_“How can you say that, mom? He stole me away.” Arthur felt oddly calm, though his heart ached at his mother’s lack of suspicion towards the Brit._

_“He saved you.” The boy closed his eyes as she kissed the crown of his head._

_“If it weren’t for Mr. Eames… where would you be now?” Arthur sunk teeth into his bottom lip, considering his mother’s question with as much denial as there was awareness._

_“I don’t know.”_

_“You’d be dead.” Her arm wrapped more tightly around him and Arthur reveled in her familiar scent and the warmth of her bosom. The nostalgia brought back the memories of protection and care, both elements which had not been present long enough in the still-very-young boy’s life._

_“I don’t want to go back to him.” She sighed softly - sadly - at his words and Arthur knew without her having to tell him that there was no place for him any longer at his home._

_“I want to stay home, mom.” The boy whispered, his senses prickling with restlessness and grief, making him feel small and cold. Arthur turned his face, nuzzling his mother’s throat as she pulled him on her lap._

_“Mr. Eames is your home now.” She hushed him gently, stroking a firm hand over his hair, reminding him painfully much of the Brit’s rewarding pats on the head._

_“I’m not free when I’m with him.”_

_“Arthur, Darling…” She cooed and the boy succeeded in holding back the predictable shiver at the petname._

_“Freedom is not a goal to set.” She whispered into his ear and the boy let the words roll in the back of his mind, not desiring to think about them nor take them to the heart. His mother obviously didn’t get that Eames was the bad guy._

_When Arthur opened his eyes he was sitting back on his chair and saw something flicker in his peripheral vision. The American turned his head to the kitchen window and blinked rapidly when seeing his father round the corner of the house, making way to the kitchen door._

_“Dad?” He whispered, confused and baffled as he watched his father walk inside the kitchen. His army uniform which had been clinging to his body just seconds ago, had now made room for a dark-gray suit._

_“Hey there, Sport.” He grinned, flashing teeth. Arthur frowned at the odd smile which did not seem in place on his father’s face yet looked similar. Nonetheless his chest grew warm when the tall American ruffled a hand through his hair before swinging his mother into his arms and dancing her around the kitchen._

_Arthur smiled, feeling tears prickle behind his eyes whilst watching his parents dance and laugh, the sun glowing warmly on the floor tiles and his mother’s orange dress. The paisley print of it matched his father’s similarly-colored tie and Arthur’s stomach dropped as he recognized the piece of fabric._

_“Not a word, Pet.” Eames smirked teasingly, dressed in Arthur’s father‘s suit. Eames pressed a finger to his full lips as he continued swinging his mother around with great charm and even greater nonchalance._

_“I hate that tie.” The boy muttered under his breath, his muscles tensed with the urge to pull Eames away from his mother but instead he sat frozen… Not able to lift a finger, his throat felt as if being squeezed and he breathlessly observed the Brit leading his mother towards the backdoor that led to the garden._

_Even though the sun still shone warmly inside of the kitchen, the opened door to the garden showed nothing but darkness. Arthur heard the rain and wind, the rustling of trees. Lightning struck somewhere far away, momentarily illuminating the garden which looked more like an empty battlefield of cracked trees and shoveled dirt._   
_Arthur smelled blood._

_When the kitchen turned dark as well and Eames smiled at his mother whilst gently urging her outside the house, Arthur broke._

_For some reason he feared to talk - he shouldn’t talk in enemies’ company, his mother had told him this countless times - and so instead he just gasped for air, swallowing down tears and pleading his mother - with sight alone - to come back._

_“I have to go, Honey.” She called, looking over her shoulder and smiling with sad eyes. Even in the vague moonlight, Arthur witnessed the puffiness in her eyes and the redness of her nose._

_“Mr. Eames will take care of you now.”_

_“No.” Arthur’s voice cracked, breaking the rule of ‘not talking’ just because he didn’t want to lose her again. He couldn’t stand another three years on the streets, on his own, only to be dragged away by Eames into a safe shelter that held no way out._

_“I’m so sorry, Darling.” She whispered, turning to face the ‘garden’, her hands gripping the frame of the doorway._

_“No! Mom! Don’t you dare leave me again! Don’t you d-” The gut wrenching scream that sounded when she stepped outside only to tumble into an abyss that held no ending but her death, did not belong to his mother as Arthur had initially believed it to._

_The boy slapped both his hands over his mouth, stiffling his screams as well as the sobs that came along with the tears streaming down his cheeks._

_Eames stood behind him, kneading Arthur’s shoulders as he shushed him gently._

_“I’m sorry she left you, Arthur. I’m sorry these things have happened to you. But I’ll take care of you. If you let me.” The man leaned down then and Arthur allowed his strong arms to cradle him to a warm chest which smelled the same as his mother’s (or perhaps it had been the other way around)._

_“I’ll offer you care and protection. Love, peace and harmony. Anything for you, my Pet. Everything for you, my Love. Just let me in. Let me.” As Eames kept murmuring comforting promises which didn’t sound as lies but more so words the boy had needed to hear for a long while, Arthur cried his heart out._

_“I’m so sorry, Darling.” His mother’s voice sounded through the rain and wind. Her last words carried with eerie ease._

_“I’m so sorry, Darling.” She repeated._

_“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Darling…” As Arthur started to choke on his uncontrollable sobs, his chest feeling as if it was about to burst, his mother’s voice had long disappeared, had made way for Eames’ raspy confession and condolences._

_“I’m so sorry, Darling.” He whispered, kissing Arthur’s forehead and laying him to sleep in the boy’s old bed, a size or two too small for his sixteen-year old body, yet nonetheless it held enough love to wrap Arthur into a bundle of nostalgic grief._   
  



	17. You Don't Agree But You Don't Refuse

  
**Part Sixteen**   
_\- You Don‘t Agree But You Don‘t Refuse -_   


For some reason, unlikely as it may seem, Eames had sensed something was wrong minutes before he actually walked inside his bedroom.

He hadn’t been away for long to begin with. Eames recalled the painful knot in his stomach when he’d been tucking Arthur in a warm blanket on his pillow, only about three hours ago.  
The sensation hadn’t left during the time of his absence and thus he’d returned home earlier than planned.

Eames followed his gut. His instincts which had proven in the past to not only cause impulsive faults but more so warnings and life-saving assumptions.

With a hand squeezing the door handle of his opened bedroom door, Eames allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness whilst listening carefully for Arthur’s breathing.

Which sound carried itself to the Brit’s ears though, wasn’t a repetition of peaceful in- and exhales. Eames left the door open as he walked inside, allowing hallway light forming an ally with his searching eyes.

The moans were loud and disrupted. The words Arthur was muttering in between the mewls and groans were incoherent and mainly held no meaning to Eames’ vocabulary.   
Nonetheless, it didn’t take a genius to see that the body squirming around on the pillow on the floor belonged to a mind going through a set of intense nightmares.

Eames pursed his lips together, unbuttoning his coat whilst he scooted down to sit on his knees next to his pet. Though his broad shoulders and back blocked the hallway’s light to fall directly on Arthur’s face, Eames still could tell the boy was frowning, eyeballs rolling underneath the dark lids, mouth corners pulling down and teeth grinding around messy words.

“Please-” Arthur choked out and Eames ignored how his heart doubled its pace. It was curiosity, is what he told himself.

“Don’t leave-” The Colonel had to fold his fingers into a firm fist as he heard Arthur whimper. The boy’s body was restless even through the somnolent paralysis and when Eames brushed a curious thumb against the pet’s cheekbone, Arthur shook it off with a frown.

This didn’t look like a normal nightmare. Eames pondered as he sunk the top row of his teeth into his lower lip. The man had spent enough years in the army to know what people looked like when going through sleep-terrors caused by traumatic events in their life. It held many differences to ordinary nightmares which ninety-nine percent of the time went by unnoticed by any awake companion.

The one Arthur was going through at that moment held no less truth than to the men Eames had seen waking up screaming before ripping the bed sheets off themselves and running outside as if death were to be on their heels. Their subconscious weeping at the lives they’d taken in the war or the witnessing of women and children being abused by fellow soldiers.

Eames closed his eyes momentarily, his thumb resting once more on the boy’s cheekbone and stroking soothing circles over the soft skin which was burning hot and clammy with sweat.

When Arthur began to sob, and his body started to heave and shake, Eames opened his eyes once again and looked down at the pained face of his pet. The American’s teeth were bared and grit together, as if to bite back excruciating pain, his frown seemed desperate rather than confused and his cheeks were surprisingly lacking any tears even though he was clearly crying.

“Arthur.” Eames whispered carefully, feeling an unfamiliar heaviness weighing him down. Even though he was curious to know what the boy was dreaming about, even though Eames wanted to wait and see what more would fall out the child’s pretty mouth, he didn’t. He didn’t wait.

The Brit refused to believe that his intentions for waking Arthur were because of the boy’s obvious agony. It wasn’t. He needed to wake this boy quickly, to disorientate him and find out the first instinct shooting in the kid’s system upon seeing Eames as he wakes.

The Brit grimaced at the reasoning, but it would do for the time being.

“Arthur.” Eames stroked his hand over the boy’s cheek, fingers brushing sharp jawbone before running down a smooth throat. His skin was burning but not quite hot enough to indicate an infection or triggered fever.

When Eames began shaking him with a gentle hand on a bony shoulder, Arthur began to fight back. The Brit leaned away from the flailing arms and his lips tightened when Arthur begged him - drowsily- to please not hurt him, to please not leave him.

After another shove Arthur woke with a shuddering gasp, wheezing as his eyes flew open. Eames frowned at the glazed over pupils, dark but still foggy even in the poorly-lightened room. He pulled his hand away.

“No!” Arthur whimpered, trembling fingers chasing after Eames’ wrist as he looked around with obvious confusion creasing his brow line. His hands shook as they messily waved around only to end up clinging to the lapels of the Brit’s paisley shirt. Eames started to hush him gently, shifting around a bit as he tried to catch the American’s eyes, draw him back into reality without so much as physically touching him which was bound to upset him more.

“Arthur. It’s okay.” He spoke calmly, far more calmly than he actually felt, and watched the boy swallow back tears before crawling from his pillow.

Eames’ heart stopped beating for at least three full counts when Arthur crawled onto his lap. It was obvious by now that the kid was still somewhat in a slumber. Night terrors weren’t easy to wake from and often left you in a sleep-walking experience; hazed and confused… Irrational.

Nonetheless, Eames wasn’t left unaffected.

The Brit opened his arms a bit, leaning back as the young boy curled himself onto his lap. Arthur pulled up his legs, knees to chest, but his small fists tightened in the Colonel’s shirt before he buried his face into the collar… into his chest… nose dipping in the little hollow of Eames’ throat.

“Arthur…” Eames mumbled, his brain having done a one-eighty on him, before leaving him to fend for his own.

Eames followed his gut.

He wrapped both arms around the scrawny, naked body on his lap and dipped his nose into the crown of his head, sniffing Arthur’s pitch-black strands of ridiculously soft hair.

His scent, his warmth, even his voice oozed an odd sense of coziness over the Colonel who quite frankly had never belonged to people to call a family or a house to call ‘home’.   
It was misplaced, not to mention hypocritical, to associate this aspect with the boy in his arms.  
The parents who’d taken care of Eames the first eighteen years of his life, had been poor excuses of caretakers. Not connected by blood made their crude excuse to neglect the Brit all the more powerful and Eames couldn’t remember a peaceful time in his life where he’d ever had felt welcome or loved.

It wasn’t something Eames wanted to focus on, not at that time nor any time soon. The Colonel quickly locked the memories back in the secure little ‘denial’ part of his brain and refocused attention back on his pet.

“Don’t leave.” Arthur muttered, his body heavy with exhaustion and Eames dully noted relief for the steady breathing as the American had seized the dry sobs as well the full-blown panic attack that came with such night-terrors.

Though Eames was sure that Arthur was hallucinating, was seeing someone far different from the English brute that had stolen him away from the streets, he couldn’t help but indulge.

“Don’t leave me.” Arthur begged. It was a whisper, but loud enough for Eames to suck in hungrily.

Only a couple of minutes passed before Arthur was breathing slow yet steadily, the fists clutching the lapels of Eames’ shirt had now reduced in strength and the Brit tightened his arms which were wrapped around his pet.

Arthur felt tiny. And thinking about how fragile and compliant he was in his sleep, did unexpected things to the Eames’ libido.

Ignoring the warmth that pooled from his tummy down lower, Eames scooped Arthur more tightly against his chest and then rose to his feet. He walked them to his bed and without second-guessing his instinctive reasoning, Eames lowered Arthur’s light body on top of the soft mattress.

The Colonel gently peeled Arthur’s fingers off the thick fabric of his shirt before pulling the bed’s duvet over the small and pale body.

After Eames had tucked the boy in for a second time that night, he took a seat on his dresser at the bed’s foot-end, looking over his pet.

Five cigarettes and a nervous outburst of clammy hands and shallow breathing later, Eames finally had come clean with the vague reasoning of what the hell was going on and what the bloody ef he was doing.

Arthur looked heart-achingly vulnerable as he lied, curled into a ball, in the middle of Eames’ spacious bed.   
It had to be instinct… Eames told himself. The odd desire to protect this boy, the perverted pleasure he felt at his subdued moments, the throb in his chest that quivered at the thought of throwing Arthur back out there… for any man to grab and abuse… It was all related to an instinctive recognition for not allowing one to go through what has been suffered by oneself in the past. And… as well because of a masculine sense of ownership and possessiveness.

Eames understood what it was like to not have parents, to be on your own and not being able to trust a single soul… Eames knew as well that the absolute lack of control in one’s childhood would only knead you into a perfectionist with a focused sight and strict rules.

It all came together in the end.

All these inappropriate - if not too kind of - emotions he felt spiraling inside of him whenever he so much as thought of his pet, they held meaning. They held reasoning.

Care and protection. This was the goal Eames had set for his relationship with Arthur. He needed for this bloody Yank to come and trust him, bare himself, let go of all the controlling strings and have Eames guide him through.

Because, enemy or not, Eames would guide Arthur through this all. He owed this child the support in order to keep his freedom out of reach. It was for Arthur’s own good.

Right?

He’d come to see that… Eames was never wrong about these things. His contradicting thoughts had made way for an eased down acceptation that ‘yes’… ‘Arthur would be taken care off, in the kindest manner Eames saw fit and was allowed to offer’.

Keeping this boy ‘hostage’ wasn’t the wrong thing to do. Arthur surely would come to see that a freedom of poverty held nothing against a prison of comfort.

Eames bit back the nauseas sensation in his stomach, as if his subconscious tried to punish him for his thoughts, and slowly rose from the dresser.

His blue-grey eyes rolled over the kid’s frame, boniness visible even through the paisley duvet. Arthur’s ribcage expanded with each inhale and Eames’ ears tuned in on the gentle exhales, foolishly trying to listen for words giving away any secret truths still hidden from the Brit.

Arthur said no more words that night, but when Eames gingerly lied down on top of the duvet, behind the boy, the latter turned around in his sleep and crawled against the Brit’s chest with a soft sigh.

It only took Eames two seconds of shoving away conscience and instead wrap the teenager close to him, caring for him with the warmth of his body and protecting him with the strength of his arms.

* * *

 

Eames woke three hours later by a noise that had sounded suspiciously much like Arthur’s previous sobbing.

Blinking to have his eyes adjust to the darkness of the room (the guards must’ve closed the door somewhere during Eames’ slumber) the Colonel took in his surroundings.

He could feel that his nose was buried in warm, soft hair, the scent of which notified him immediately that it was Arthur who was sleeping in his arms and in his bed.   
Eames felt a tad sweaty, his skin burning hot and his breathing shallow. The Brit didn’t recall a nightmare and when a groan slipped from his lips he realized that he himself had been the one to wake him up with a moan only minutes ago… And not at all because of a bad dream.

As the older man woke up from him slumber with a snap, Arthur just sighed in his sleep, his back curling more closely against Eames’ chest.

They were spooning. When had they started spoo-

“Bloody shite…” Eames whispered under his breath while stilling his hips which had been rolling lewdly against Arthur’s small arse. He took a deep breath, suppressing a shiver and swallowing down another pitiful moan.

He was hard as a rock.

Eames wasn’t sure why he was so upset by the current setting. Arthur wasn’t too young and the fact of him being mentally fully grown or the fact whether or not he’d enjoy sexual relations with the enemy shouldn’t be of any matter to Eames.

A pet was just a pet and nothing more than an object to fool around with…  
Well… that’s how the world worked in this age. That’s how humans worked in this day. But Eames had never been one of the mass, no matter the irony of his current rank in the British military.

Eames followed his gut.

He quite literally jumped from the bed - albeit with such practiced grace, Arthur didn’t move a muscle nor batted an eyelash - before abruptly leaving his bedroom and walking as far away from Arthur as was possible in the basements where he lived… where ‘they both’ lived.

Eames didn’t agree with his mindset. He didn’t agree that he was weak, too considerate of a simple boy, too worried what would happen were he to be taken away from him by Saito or anyone else.

But neither did he refuse to do just that. Be considerate…. Worry, care, protect. Make sure he didn’t fall into the hands of those… those perverts.

The Colonel ended up drinking as much Whiskey as was needed to have his contradicting thoughts and the utter confusion, self-denial and hypocrisy drown into silence. He drank until he stopped scowling at himself and he drank even more to stop the mocking of himself… Eames drank until he passed out, waking up three hours late for his meeting with Saito.  
  



	18. With Your Standards so High and Your Spirits so Low

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's six in the morning and I just finished this for you guys.  
> Enjoy! (let's hope my judgment hasn't been clogged by being sleep-deprived and high on cafeine)

  
**_Part Seventeen_ **   
_\- With Your Standards so High and Your Spirits so Low -_   


The next day started rather abruptly because somehow Eames found that thoroughly shaking Arthur until he woke up had to be an excellent plan.

Arthur wanted to scowl at the man, wanted to squawk (which he did, but refused to admit) when the Brit pulled the blanket from his curled up body.

“What the-”

“Out.” Arthur frowned at the harsh tone in his master’s voice and carefully looked around. He was in Eames’ bed and had no idea how he’d gotten in it. Arthur assumed this had to be the cause of the Colonel’s obvious annoyance, not to mention…

“Are you drunk?” Arthur asked with narrowed eyes and the tiniest voice. He was too much in a sleepy haze to bite his tongue but awake enough to smell the faint scent of alcohol.

Eames crossed his arms then, the toe of his Italian wingtip tapping on the floor impatiently. Arthur on his turn groggily recalled last night. The Brit had been pleased by his self-given corner time… had allowed Arthur to take a long bath, had calmly disregarded the kid’s weak attempt at rebellion and instead spoon-fed him on his lap… and Arthur had taken it all.

The boy blushed in anger as he remembered his eagerness to devour the delicious meal, had ignored the fact that he’d been seated (comfortably) on Eames’ lap, had been patiently waiting with mouth wide open for the man to feed him whenever he’d felt like it.

And afterwards? Eames had tucked him in, on his pillow and that’s the last Arthur remembered. He had no clue how he’d gotten into Eames’ bed.

“I don’t- I mean- I was sleeping… on my pillow.”

“Out.” Eames spoke the word slowly, articulating it in a silly manner, his eyes widened and eyebrows risen in condescension.

Arthur smelled the alcohol and could see by the bags underneath Eames’ eyes and the ruffled state of his suit (which he’d been wearing last night as well) that he had probably caught no sleep and/or had been drinking away most of the night. Which led to the fact that the boy should probably not yank the man’s chain too much.

The American was annoyingly aware of Eames’ stern gaze when he started to maneuver to the edge of the bed, trying his best to ‘subtly’ keep himself cupped down there. When he was about to swing his legs onto the floor, Eames tutted.

“What?” Arthur breathed, glaring up at the taller man who stood in front of him with an expression that was a mixture of amusement and agitation.  
The boy dully noted that he’d never met anyone who had such a versatile face as this damn Brit did.

“Roll back the attitude, Darling.” The boy winced at the nickname, but other than that any images of his mother stayed neatly put in the back of his subconscious. His mind started to get used to Eames using the word, blurring the image of his mother with surprising ease.

“All fours.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Arthur. Do as you’re told.” Eames stroked a hand over his face, huffing and frowning, obviously sprouting a heada-… hangover. Arthur tried to calculate, in the next couple of seconds, how much he could disobey the man today…

The kid found himself reenergized after last night’s bath and dinner, his need to fight against this capturer had come back with a vengeance and even though he could tell Eames’ was still a tad buzzed and a whole lot sleep-deprived, that didn’t mean he was scared of him anymore than normal.

The boy stood up then, cupping himself and very much not on ‘all fours’. Arthur rose his chin, glaring at the man in front of him through his black fringe.  
Eames, with both thumbs hooked behind his thin crimson belt, rocked on the balls of his feet. It was a gesture - subconscious or not- of pure dominance and authority, something Arthur had learned in his years on the streets.

He was confident. The damn English bastard was enjoying this.

“Your braveness is charmingly misplaced.” The man whispered after a couple of intense minutes of silence and eye contact. Arthur winced, shoulders crawling up when Eames reached out a hand towards his head.

“Don’t-” Arthur embarrassingly squeaked when Eames’ fingers grabbed a light hold of his pitch-black hair. The Brit paused and tilted his head a bit sideways, eyes searching for Arthur’s.

“Don’t?” The Colonel asked, a tight smile playing around his mouth corners.

“Don’t hurt me.” Arthur tried to make it sound like a warning, because he’d be damned to admit with words that he was afraid of this man… even after a month of no direct abuse.

“I don’t remember getting in your bed. Don’t punish me for something I didn’t mean to do.” Arthur’s voice wavered slightly, albeit it sounded confident enough in his ears. When Eames stroked Arthur’s hair away from his forehead, the latter held his breath and gazed carefully at the Brit.

The atmosphere shifted very noticeably. Perhaps it was because Eames’ eyes seemed to soften around the edges, maybe because his shoulders sloped down a bit as his body uncoiled into a more relaxed position… Most likely it had a lot to do with Eames’ thumb stroking almost-soothing circles on the little patch of skin between the boy’s eyes and on the bridge of his nose.

“Arthur, Pet…” A stiff smile fell on Eames’ full lips before he glanced over the kid’s head. Arthur observed the Brit reconsidering his words, the thumb had paused its stroking and it was one of the first times that the American noticed Eames being at a loss of words.

The Colonel looked back down then, meeting his eyes and throwing him a sly smirk. The adolescent, on his turn, scowled. Eames stroked one last time over the boy’s head before pulling his hand back altogether.

“I’m not upset that you were lying in my bed, which honestly flatters me, but more so am I bothered that you still chose to throw a fit and disobey my clear demands.” Eames’ voice was void of any emotion, a feigned calm to it, and though Arthur wasn’t sure which emotion exactly the man was hiding from him… there most certainly was one lying underneath the surface of his bland eyes and tight smile.

“Now, on all fours.” Arthur hesitated, trying to read the Colonel’s face and body language but failing miserably. As where before he thought he pretty much knew Eames by now - as far as emotions went -, Arthur now grimly had to suffer from his own misplaced confidence.

“Can I at least put some clothes on first?” The boy asked, voice thick through gritted teeth, his instincts making the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention.

“What do you think?” Eames asked mockingly before pointing towards the floor in front of his feet.

“You don’t wanna know what I’m thinking…” The boy grumbled under his breath and then yelped when Eames flicked his middle finger against his arm. It wasn’t that it hurt, but the action itself had taken the boy by surprise.

“Not a word, Arthur. You’re being disciplined.” Arthur bit back all the insults he wanted to spit at the man and instead gingerly bent his knees to lower himself onto the floor.   
Eames watched and didn’t step back as Arthur had to awkwardly get onto his hands and knees in the small space between the side of the bed and the Brit’s long legs.

“Head between my legs, Pet.” The boy didn’t stop to think about the command because honestly the better he’d behave, the sooner this would be over. They were in a session and the kid would find it eerie to notice how his mindset easily clicked into the ‘obey for benefits’ setting, weren’t it for the fact he was too focused on contorting his body in the small confinement.

“Stay.” The Englishman commanded with a calm voice when Arthur’s head was framed by Eames’ spread legs, his bottom resting against the cold wood of the bed behind him. The boy bit his lip, his face flushed with embarrassment because he could feel Eames looking down on him, literally and most likely metaphorically as well.

Various minutes passed then, complete silence swirling around the pair. Arthur felt awkward (and that was putting it nicely) as he sat on hands and knees, naked, with his head between the Brit’s legs. The whole dynamic left a nasty aftertaste on Arthur’s tongue… it was embarrassing, degrading even.

It wasn’t until ten minutes in that Arthur’s body started to grow tired of supporting itself on flattened hands and knobby knees getting bruised on the hardwood floor.

“I wasn’t planning to punish you when I came here.” The Brit began and Arthur’s eyes glanced sideways when he heard -and felt- the fabric of the man’s pants move as the Brit retreated something from its pocket.  
Subconsciously, the boy tried to move his head a bit away from the leg to his left, but ended up bumping his ear against the other limb. Eames’ let out an amused chuckle before shifting his feet until his legs pressed softly against both of the American’s ears.  
The pressure wasn’t uncomfortable, but rather awkward as the boy’s face now heated because of the warmth from Eames’ legs which radiated through the thin material of his pants.

“I’ve had a rather rough afternoon, which brings me to the fact that I’m quite surprised you’ve been sleeping so long… which isn’t bad per sé.” Eames paused then and Arthur heard him click open his Zippo before lighting a cigarette.

“That being said, I was even more so surprised to see you lying in my bed…” Eames’ voice wavered but Arthur assumed it was because of the smoke he’d inhaled. The scent of the Zippo’s extinct flame prickled in the boy’s nose.

“Nonetheless, your punishment, Dearest Arthur, has nothing to do with the previous fact but has everything to do with your bratty attitude and hesitation-and-refusal to follow orders.” Arthur bit his tongue, desperate to not snap back at the arrogant Brit towering over him and having his head locked between legs.

“Understood?” Arthur heard the Brit drag from his cigarette and stubbornly didn’t reply until Eames exhaled.

“Yes, Sir.”

After the explanation various more minutes of silence passed wherein Arthur tried his best to not hiss at the quivering muscles in his arms nor at the ache in his kneecaps. Eames on the other hand just joyfully finished three more cigarettes before finally leaning over and placing something cold on the boy’s naked back.

Arthur stirred and then closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, as he realized Eames had just placed his ashtray on him.

The fucking nerve…

“Don’t touch the bed.” The Brit demanded. Arthur held back another huff and shifted his weight forward until his shoulders were resting against Eames’ shins, his bottom no longer leaning against the wooden bed-frame behind him.

“Are you ready to apologize?” It was early… Allowing Arthur to apologize and with that end the punishment were Eames to be satisfied with the kid’s genuineness, had been given at a rather early period in the session.

Half an hour? Maybe forty minutes but certainly no more, whereas normal sessions often took at least an hour. Eames must’ve felt as tired as he had looked when waking Arthur up. He wanted to get this over with as much as Arthur did and the boy felt an odd sense of mutual agreement to this.

Even though Arthur still had plenty of fight in him, even with trembling limbs and sore muscles, there was a lack of spark to fight Eames any longer for today. It was a first in the month they’d ‘lived together’ that the boy felt the need to just give in even though he could go on for many more hours and for a moment he considered what to do.

“Yes, Sir.” He muttered softly, dipping his head a bit more and ignoring how his skin crawled when feeling the thick fabric of Eames’ pants brush against the shells of his ears and cheekbones.

“Go on.”

“I apologize for my attitude, glares and huffs included, as well for disobeying direct orders and hesitating for too long, Sir.” Another silence followed after that and the boy sighed mentally when he felt Eames bend over slightly to retreat the ashtray from his back.

“Good boy, you can get up.” Eames spoke, stepping away from Arthur and then turning around towards one of his dressers.

Arthur didn’t know whether it was intentional or not, but he was grateful for the time given to him to stand up, cup himself and get rid of the blush on his cheekbones, while Eames’ back was turned towards him.

The boy wasn’t stupid enough to move any further though. He stood quietly, watching the Brit place his ashtray on the dresser before pulling off his suit jacket. His thick shoulders rolled almost fascinatingly and the American grimaced at the realization that he most likely would never grow as much muscle and width as the Colonel had.

“You’re getting a haircut tomorrow.” Eames spoke, his voice sounding grumpy and by the stiffness of his neck Arthur could tell the man was desperate for either a hot bath or a good night’s rest, if not both.

“Okay.” He mumbled, safe to talk now the session was over. The American did not see a problem in getting his hair cut (at last!).

“Okay?” Eames repeated, glancing over his shoulder with a look in his eyes that Arthur couldn’t place. It didn’t happen often that the Brit would be in a worse mood after a session… in contrary.

The boy sunk teeth in his bottom lip as he tried to wrap his head around what was off. Something was… Eames’ gentle thumb on the bridge of his nose earlier today, the softness around his eyes and the momentarily loss of words… the lack of bark, the shortness of the session… Eames wasn’t himself.

This all just caused that the adolescent felt out of place and his instincts sharpened because of the heavy atmosphere in between the two of them.

When the Brit’s eyes lowered to gaze at Arthur’s lip still being dented by the top-row of his teeth, the boy straightened his back and nodded.

“Yes, I-I don’t mind.” The kid stuttered a bit, his feet metaphorically wavering on an unsteady ground and rocking his whole system along with it.

“I didn’t ask if you mind. I don’t care if you mind.” Eames’ eyes narrowed and his voice sounded unsteady, trembling with an emotion Arthur assumed to be anger.   
The American didn’t know what to say to this, didn’t know what to make of it and instead pressed his lips shut, staring into the Brit’s dark-gray eyes.

After a short, barely-visible frown, Eames turned back around to his dresser and retreated a small heap of clothes.

Arthur didn’t move a muscle, instead frowning as he observed his master moving around the room. It wasn’t just curiosity which he felt, not just confusion and neither just anxiety. There was something weighing heavily in his stomach, contracting his chest with every breath he took. But he couldn’t place it.

When Eames brushed past him, the boy had to suppress an unpleasant shiver but couldn’t stop from wincing. Not being able to read this man, witnessing the Colonel act so oddly, so unpredictably made the fear and animosity he’d felt on day one boil back to the surface.   
And with that knowledge Arthur had to admit that things had indeed changed between the two of them in the past month. Arthur had indeed lost some of his fear, some of his anger and more so… Arthur had indeed calmed down, had settled a little bit in the current lifestyle.

This realization, more than Eames’ following crude remark, had Arthur break out into a cold sweat.

“Your wishes are of no importance to me, you got that? If I want your hair to be cut, your hair will be cut, regardless of your opinion. If I want you to eat, you’ll eat. If I want you to starve, you will bloody starve. You got that, Arthur? It is I who lead, who decides, not you. Never you.” Arthur looked over his shoulder to the man standing in the bathroom’s opened doorway.

His face was distorted with repressed rage… disgust.   
It was a look which made the pit in Arthur’s stomach drop even lower and when Eames - after a long intense glare - slammed the door shut behind him, the boy stumbled towards his pillow and plumped down heavily.

He shivered, his breathing constricted and heart pounding erratically in his chest. It was in that moment, sitting alone in his master’s bedroom, on the pillow next to his master’s bed that Arthur could place the emotion that had been weighing heavily inside of him ever since he’d figured out something was wrong with Eames.

Worry.

Arthur was worried.  
Not of himself.

Arthur was worried about Eames in a most genuine, selfless and misplaced-kind manner.

 


	19. A Hostage to Kindness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what happened but this chapter is at least twice as long as my average ones.  
> I might've went overboard with details... Anyways, thanks to a kind anon declaring their love for this fic I finished this chapter today instead of Sunday!
> 
> Enjoy.

  
**Part Eighteen**   
_\- A Hostage to Kindness -_   


Eames didn’t like this…. This ‘whatever’ it was that was going on between Arthur and Jack, the latter of which was the improvised hairdresser and obnoxious twat of the day.

But since the Colonel didn’t even so much as think he should act upon this odd sense of possessiveness, he could only grumpily stare as he sat at his desk, sipping Scotch.

“I used to do my family’s hair, you know?” Jack lightly claimed as he brushed a few fingers through the thick black strands of Arthur’s hair. Eames’ eyes narrowed as he watched his pet slightly dip his chin to chest, his narrow shoulders framed by the soldier’s knees as he sat on a chair and Arthur on the floor.

Fuckin’ leave it to Jack to have Arthur calmly dip his head without protest. To not make the boy cringe at the close proximity whereas he’d wince and scowl at as much as a look coming from Eames.

“Colonel?” Eames sighed dramatically before leaning back in his seat.

“What is it, Jack?” He asked with a frown, placing the tumbler of liquor onto his desk, next to his Glock and a pile of papers which he should be working on right at this opportunistic moment (yet Eames’ couldn’t look away from the two young men across of his desk).

“Can Joe sit on the chair? It‘s a bit easier to work then.” Eames would’ve sputtered on his drink had he been sipping from it. ‘Joe’… The Colonel didn’t like hearing Arthur’s false name roll so smoothly over another man’s tongue.

“First of all, Jack, don’t call my pet with his name.” He barely not growled, hands coming to rest on his own thighs underneath the desk and squeezing the muscles firmly.

“Secondly… yes, he can.” Jack nodded rapidly, excitement obvious in his beady, little, gleaming eyes. Eames snarled as he watched the soldier get up from his chair and playfully bumping Arthur’s shoulder to have him stand up from the floor he’d been seated on.

The pet winced at the physical contact, but other than that his face remained blank as he rose elegantly to his feet. The flicker of eye contact between the two young men when Arthur glanced over his shoulder at Jack, made Eames scowl and almost (ALMOST) pout.

Eames was pleased with the assemble Arthur was wearing, though. The baggy, green jumper and the equally ill-fitting trousers had been laid out on the bed earlier this morning by the Colonel himself… He’d be damned to show an inch of the kid’s skin to such a naïve, enthusiastic private as Jack.

Arthur plumped down on the chair with a scowl, seemingly not that impressed with Jack scooting the furniture underneath his bum with almost-humoristic flair. His elbows thudded when they planted themselves on the desk and Arthur’s eyes questionably leered at Eames as he sat in front of him at the other side of the desk.

The Colonel chose to look away, very much aware of the tension between them as yesterday’s incident had still not been resolved. He didn’t want to trigger the boy to bark an insult at him because the act of his muteness was still up to anyone but Eames.

Saito wouldn’t be pleased to hear that the pet was able to talk, he would most certainly not buy that the Colonel hadn’t known this for the past month.   
Which reminded Eames of the very awkward delayed meeting the previous morning when he’d staggered into Saito’s office, three hours late for their appointment. Luckily enough, Eames had been able to bluff his way through the ordeal with various lies as to what had been the cause of his ruffled state, even though he’d still been half-drunk because of the bottle of Whiskey he’d downed throughout the night.

Whether Saito had believed Eames was of no matter for now. The half-Japanese half-English man had accepted his apology and had dismissed him with a curt -not too unfriendly- nod after ten minutes. Eames was grateful, because this man who floated on the border of power-hungry insanity, still had a faint weak spot for the Colonel.

With gracefully faked indifference, Eames grabbed some papers from his right and opened one of the folders from the pile. His broad shoulders hunched as he leaned forward, his attention seemingly focused only on the documents in front of him.

“What kind of haircut did you have in mind, Colonel?” Eames quirked a brow at that, looking up at Jack though his face was still downcast at the paperwork. The soldier didn’t notice the glare as he busied himself displaying a neat -yet aged- set of hair-dresser utensils on the desk.

He was standing too bloody close to Arthur, Eames decided as he watched Jack’s elbow bump softly into Arthur’s shoulder while he organized the various scissors and razors based on their size.

“My intention is to get rid of his fringe.” The Colonel spoke slowly, truthfully not that sure what haircut to get for Arthur. They’d never spoken about what he’d like to get for himself… not that that was of any importance of course.

As Eames had spat yesterday at his pet; ‘Your wishes are of no importance to me.’.

Matter of fact, they hadn’t spoken after yesterday’s fight. Eames had taken a shower after the crude remarks, dragging it out because he didn’t feel like walking back into his bedroom and come to stand face to face with the pet.  
He wasn’t scared of Arthur, anything but, nonetheless something in his chest had constricted at the thought of witnessing whatever emotion the pet was going through after the harsh things Eames had stated.

Either way, eventually Eames had had to come out of the bathroom and into the adjoined bedroom. Arthur had been lying curled up on his pillow, the duvet Eames had tucked him into the night before, wrapped tightly around his light frame. The boy had buried his nose underneath the fabric and his eyes were closed too harshly to even consider he’d been genuinely asleep.

Eames’ pet had feigned his sleep and the Brit had been simultaneously annoyed and relieved at this fact. He’d left the room within minutes, deciding to catch a bit of sleep on the sofa in his small living room (a room which Arthur had yet to be introduced to).

“Just the fringe then, Colonel Eames?” Jack interrupted Eames’ wandering thoughts and the Brit snapped his head back up from where he’d been staring blankly at the paperwork.   
At Eames’ confused look, the soldier downcast his gaze and stroked fingers through the hair on the nape of Arthur’s neck. The American almost meekly complied, dipping his chin and allowing Jack more access to his neck.

It made an ugly fire spark inside Eames, but the man bit it back.

“These are a bit long as well, huh?” The young man noted, tugging gently at the dark strands of hair. Arthur removed his elbows from the table, instead choosing to lay them on the chair’s armrests, his hands folding neatly, hovering above his lap.  
It was a movement one wouldn’t think too much of, but for Eames, noticing how HIS pet took a more comfortable position whilst another man was basically fondling his hair -as if he bloody enjoyed it-, it was frustrating to witness.

It wasn’t jealousy, mind you, it was a possessiveness he remembered having experienced on the highest peak when Jack had been ogling Arthur x-amount of weeks ago. Eames recalled how he’d snapped in a second, barking at the soldier to stop looking at his pet, who at the time had been standing naked in the corner.

It had startled him back then.

And it once more startled him today.

“Do what you want, Jack. Just leave _some_ length to it.” Eames mumbled, his gaze momentarily flickering to Arthur, but the boy was still looking down, his face blank except for the little twitch in his jaw line.

Arthur was surprisingly calm for having another human being interact with him, physically as well as verbally. Eames could basically read the boy as a book and to see the lack of spice, of nervousness and paranoia in the kid’s features and body-language… well, it surprised him.  
He wasn’t sure yet whether the boy was lost in thought, or if he’d been spontaneously subdued because of their fight, or… -and Eames tensed at the thought- if Arthur wasn’t worried about anything happening to him simply because the Colonel was in the same room with them.

Surely Arthur remembered what Eames had told him in the past about his protection and his right to fight off anyone were they to hurt him. He knew, albeit might not trust, that Eames would not allow another human being to lay a harmful hand on him.

Nevertheless, the Brit hoped it wasn’t because of the second possible reason, being the fight they‘d had reasoning Arthur into submission. He dearly wished he had not ruined Arthur’s spirit by degrading him yesterday. Even though the little Yank was a headstrong, stubborn adolescent, Eames still was worried he’d come to break the boy’s soul completely and be left with an emotionless scale following his every order.

He didn’t want that.

What he’d said to Arthur yesterday had come out of nowhere. Eames had felt backed into a corner. He’d been too proud, too fond about the kid. He’d been too close, too kind with him… rubbing the bridge of his nose and smiling not only with lips but as well with his grey eyes at Arthur… That all shouldn’t have happened.

It had been inappropriate for their master - pet dynamic. Even if Eames’ didn’t exactly play by the rules and had taken Arthur under his wing for the sake of giving him a semi-comfortable and safe life… he shouldn’t have been that bloody considerate of him. He should, most of all, not have felt that fond of the young boy looking up at him with large, scared eyes as he’d been gently petting him.

The realization that Eames was working Arthur with a far-too-soft of a hand, had enabled the man from not quite mentioning he’d been the one having nestled the kid into his bed. Even when Arthur had stuttered about not having intended to sleep there, not having remembered, Eames had kept the fact to himself because he’d still been (and even now still was) very fucking upset for having spooned this child as if he’d been a lover. His lover. Not to mention the bodily reaction Arthur’s warm body had awakened in Eames.

All of those facts thrown together had caused for the Colonel to lose his cool after Arthur’s innocent ‘I don’t mind’ remark. Because it shouldn’t matter whether he cared or not. It should not at all be that Arthur thought he had a say in things -even if Eames mockingly noted that had been exactly what he’d told the kid early on in their relationship; that he DID have a say in things-.  
The hypocrisy of himself and the calm of his pet had caused Eames to irrationally fight the sixteen-year old. He’d thrown half-lies at him, desperately clinging to something that would assure him he was in complete control not only of his pet but as well of himself.

Eames could not let go of control.  
He could not just take a break from being Arthur’s master. The boy was expecting too much… Eames was expecting too much. Not to mention, Saito was expecting a lot more than the Colonel had initially allowed himself to believe.

Eames had lost control, angry at Arthur but more so angry at himself for feeling like an emotional mess when it came to the bloody Yank.

Basically he needed to get grip, a hold on this situation. He needed to fold and knead and manipulate it back to his hand because he’d be damned to grow a humane weak spot for this little brat who’d probably blow Eames’ brains out in his sleep were he’d given the chance.

Putting all that aside… Eames could not suppress the possessive agitation he felt as he listened to Jack babbling to his pet with a steady charm.

“You have very nice hair, you know? It looks pretty healthy, only a tad dry but that’s to be expected in these difficult times, huh?” Jack spoke cheerfully and Eames noticed how Arthur’s shoulders relaxed slightly as he listened to the young man talk. Though he wanted to tell his private to shut his mouth, the Colonel instead bit his tongue and looked back down at the paperwork.

“The texture is similar to someone I used to know.” Jack added, stroking fingers through Arthur’s hair and leaning a bit over the boy as he reached out for one of the scissors.   
Eames’ eyes narrowed and he gave up on focusing on his work, instead faking his scribbling on the paper and glaring from beneath his lashes at the two young men across from him.

“Though hers was of a different color.” Arthur blinked shortly before tipping his head back and looking up at Jack. His throat elongated with arching and Eames felt a heat crawl up his cheeks.

The soldier looked down, surprised to see a reaction coming from the mute kid, but he smiled nonetheless.

“You want to know about her?” Arthur paused but then nodded before dipping his chin once more and looking at the hands in his lap.

It shouldn’t be this frustrating to see the kid interact with anyone else but Eames. He wasn’t allowed to. He should not be looking, nor reacting to this soldier as those were the rules he’d stated before they had had that dinner with Saito.  
But even though Eames’ anger should be directed at Arthur’s disobedience, it more so spiraled towards the fact that the boy looked genuinely pleased to be in Jack’s presence and to listen to the soldier’s airy voice.

A sickening sense of curiosity and masochism made Eames bite back any order for Arthur to behave and instead he just observed the duo in front of him.

“Her name was Rose.” Jack sighed. Eames’ eyes met Arthur’s when the boy looked up from his lap and quirked a sarcastic eyebrow at his master. The Brit assumed Arthur was remembering when Eames had told him about Jack and Rose, telling a lame joke about how there used to be a film with characters named the same and he’d tuned in on this information to make lame puns and references.

That had been long ago, Eames frowned as he recalled the first day he’d met Arthur. He’d told that joke on their first day together, ‘t had been a horrible joke… it could explain to odd expression on Arthur’s face right now.

But, being a man of instincts, Eames leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms and threw a charming smile at his pet. His mind tried to fight for common sense; be his master and his master only, don’t be kind, be cruel, be in control, don’t allow, don’t compensate, don’t fucking smile at him, don’t give Arthur anything positive to work with!  
Regardless of the shouting in his head, the Colonel once more fell for the inexplicable need to be the good guy to Arthur. Reasoning being that he was only a kid. Only a bloody young boy, without a family, in the enemy’s country. Just another human being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

It didn’t help that Arthur didn’t seem angry at Eames about last night. More so he looked rather subdued and a hushed eagerness lied in his large eyes. An eagerness to make up to Eames something he hadn’t even been the fault of.

The Brit, who’d killed more people in his life than would be considered a sane amount for an ex-soldier, believed he owed this Yank a peace-offering. (Not an apology, mind you)

“Never let go of Rose, Jack.” Eames muttered teasingly, knowing that no one would ever get the joke because the film had existed ages ago and the ability to play tapes or even DVD’s in this age was as good as impossible. Films didn’t exist anymore, only music… scratchy tunes coming from radio’s that had seen far better days.

Though it was very unlikely Arthur would have seen a film in his young life -having grown up in a beginning war- let alone that particular one, still the corner of his mouth quirked up in the tiniest lop-sided smile, the hint of a dimple in his left cheek flashing momentarily.

Eames’ choked on his breath (or maybe on saliva), either way, he ended up coughing and waving a hand as Jack complained about the repetitive joke that didn’t make any sense to him. The soldier presumed the Colonel was faking the fit and instead was mocking his private, so he continued whining with an amused tone in his voice.

Only about five seconds later, Eames got a hold of himself and sipped gingerly from his Scotch. His grey eyes peeked over the rim of the glass and he noticed Arthur was still looking at him quietly, not a single emotion on his face, though his pupils seemed a bit dilated.

The Colonel wasn’t going to bother to find out what exactly that face meant and instead he went to suspiciously observe Jack’s hand holding the scissor, nearing Arthur’s head.

“How long ago exactly was your last haircut?” Eames asked Jack. The private looked up thoughtfully, tapping the edge of the scissors against his bottom lip as the fingers from his other hand drummed on Arthur’s shoulder.

Eames didn’t know whether to be more upset by the man holding a sharp object so close to his own face without spotting any danger, or about the hand that rested casually on his pet.

“About half a year ago.”

“Half a year?”

“Yes, Colonel… Is… that a problem?” Jack blinked, waving the scissors dangerously close around the pet’s head as he emphasized his words. Arthur, bless him, seemed oblivious of the danger waving around- and behind him.

“It is if you chop my pet’s bloody head off.” Eames grumbled, splaying his palms on his desk and rising to his feet. As the Brit rounded his desk, idly letting his fingers glide over the smooth surface, he couldn’t help but quickly glance at Arthur.

The boy met his eyes immediately -had probably already been following Eames’ every movement- and the man was sure he could see a flicker of amusement present in his dark eyes.

Eames leaned back against the front of his desk, his thigh almost touching the armrest of Arthur’s chair and he swiftly crossed his arms and ankles. He could see Arthur looking up at him from his peripheral vision, and couldn’t stop himself from smiling shortly.

The Yank was a clever boy, catching up on Eames’ sense of humor from the first second it had been displayed in this room. With Jack’s daft brain not quite comprehending the underlying jokes, Eames felt the sneaky atmosphere between himself and his pet. He couldn’t deny he enjoyed it, couldn’t deny he was very much pleased with the boy’s positive demeanor and a desire to urge Eames on with small facial expressions.

It was the first time they were actually doing something together where both parties consented and experienced equal amounts of pleasure and entertainment.

Eames’ sense of possessiveness pretty much melted like snow beneath the sun because he knew Arthur was actually being a very good boy and following Eames’ lead… mocking Jack.

The Brit completely disregarded any previous plans for being more harsh with the kid… This was going alright. Everything would turn out good. For him as well for Arthur…   
Saito and his own sense of conscience be damned.

“Go on, then.” Eames muttered at Jack, retreating a toothpick from his breast pocket and holding it out towards Arthur who stared at him with a slight surprised expression. It was the best he could do at the moment to reward the boy. Though the toothpick on its own was nothing to be happy about, he was sure the boy would understand the underlying meaning of his master sharing something of himself with him.

Arthur gingerly took the tiny wooden stick and placed it between his lips.

When Jack lifted a bit of Arthur’s hair with a narrow comb, his scissors coming dangerously close to the pet’s slightly-out-sticking ear, Eames clacked his tongue.

“No… Not there, bit higher, yeah?”

“A bit higher, Sir?”

“Yeah-yeah.” Eames nodded, ignoring Jack’s narrowed eyes as if to ponder whether Eames was taking a piss out of him or not.

Though the Colonel was genuinely, uncharacteristically nervous to have one of his soldiers cut the boy’s hair, he couldn’t help but throw Arthur a secretive smirk. The boy seemed to flush before he looked down. Eames on his turn, momentarily reveled in the blush that spread from the boy’s cheekbones to the tips of his tad-too-big ears.

He didn’t think too much of it. Not of Arthur’s soft demeanor, nor of his own. They were just making up for the fight yesterday, right?

“No Jack…” Eames muttered, leaning a bit forward and flicking his finger against the comb buried in the boy’s thick hair.

“What?”

“Not there, Jack. Jesus Christ, be bloody attentive for once.” The soldier sputtered as he straightened his back and blinked at his boss.

“But you said I-”

“I said higher. I didn’t say the top of his head now did I?” Eames scowled, leaning back against the desk and noticing how Arthur’s hands now rested on the armrests instead of in his lap.

“But there’s no other-” Eames tutted, crossing his arms and shifting a bit on his feet to rest his bum more comfortably on the furniture behind him. He noticed Arthur’s fingers flexing when the movement had caused Eames’ thigh to almost rub against the chair and the boy’s hand.

“Colonel Eames, with all due resp-”

“Ah-ah, quiet Jack. Carry on.” The young man waited for a couple of seconds before he carefully lowered his hovering hands back down towards the boy’s head. Eames hissed obnoxiously when Jack chose a spot where to comb some hair up.

The soldier looked back up, his left eyebrow rose in sarcastic wonder as he waited for Eames to tell him what was wrong. To some degree, Jack was absolutely aware that Eames was yanking his chain, but there was always a side in the men that worked for Eames that would always fear his wrath were they to rub him the wrong way.

Eames had a reputation, and this was enough to keep everyone in hand. ‘ _Except for Arthur_ ’ his brain mockingly added.

The private moved the comb a bit lower then, looking at Eames questionably. The Brit pulled a grimace, unfolding arms to wave a doubtful hand in front of him, tipping it from side to side.  
Jack huffed slowly and once again moved to another spot of Arthur’s head, again he waited for Eames’ opinion.   
The Brit cocked his head sideways before shaking it and smiling around a mouthed ‘no’.

When the younger man searched for another spot where he could start his work, Eames downcast his gaze towards his pet.   
Arthur was still looking at him, seemingly intrigued by the Brit’s facial expressions and teasing. The cupid-bow lips which cradled the toothpick, most certainly were hiding a smile. Eames flashed his teeth in a wolfish grin before refocusing his attention back to Jack.

“Yeah! Yeah, right there, Jack. Brilliant!” The soldier hesitated and he leered at the man from the corner of his eye.

“Are you sure, Colonel?”

“Yes.”

“Really, absolutely sure?”

“Absolutely, yes.” Eames didn’t miss the little sound coming from his pet. Was he holding back a snort?

“Abso-bloody-lutely sure, Colonel?”

“Positive, my dear man.” When the soldier mumbled an ‘okay’ and then looked down to focus his attention on Arthur’s hair, Eames shifted on his feet impatiently. Excited with the prospect of the upcoming joke, and absolutely not noticing how his thigh accidentally brushed against Arthur’s pinky.

The Colonel and his soldier’s eyes met once more when the latter brought his scissors to the thick black strands caught in the small comb. Eames nodded, poker-face completely intact.

The moment when the crisp sound of metal cutting through strands of hair sounded through the small office, Eames barked a ‘Stop!’ and Jack ended up wailing before pulling back both his hands and slamming down the scissor and comb on Eames’ desk.

“Colonel Eames! Stop bloody teasing me, please Sir!” The Colonel barely heard Jack’s words because he was too much intrigued by the hushed chuckling from his pet.   
Either way, he ended up shoving his soldier out of the office with a dry smile and a reassurance that ‘no, he wouldn’t have him beaten because of his crude words towards the Colonel’ and ‘yes, absolutely he had been teasing him and it wasn’t necessary to cut ‘Joe’s hair’.

When the door closed behind Jack’s back, Eames turned to face his desk and an unfamiliar spark clenched his chest when looking at Arthur.

“Do smile more often, Pet.” He murmured, taking in the sight of an uncharacteristically amused Arthur. The boy wasn’t grinning, perhaps not even smiling… But the little curl of his left-mouth-corner, and the dent of a dimple in his cheek, altogether with slightly-squinted eyes, made Eames certain that the boy was containing a gleeful smirk at the least.

Arthur looked surprisingly stunning. And achingly reachable.

When the boy nodded, Eames remembered to breathe again and as he made way towards his pet -still in need for a haircut which the Colonel would be doing himself- they both knew the fight of the day before had now been made up, forgiven and forgotten.


	20. I Can Not Find a Safety Haven

  
**Part Nineteen**   
_\- I Can Not Find a Safety Haven -_   


Arthur didn’t plan on actually shooting Eames. The thought of taking another man’s life with such impersonal flair as a bullet through the head could be considered as, well… the boy highly doubted he’d ever be able to kill someone like that, or in any other way for that matter.

So, it wasn’t that surprising to see how unimpressed Eames looked when the American leaned over the desk and casually dragged the Glock towards him. Arthur’s eye had fell on it when the Brit had urged Jack outside of his office, with a hand in the small of his back and a reassuring smile that ‘Everything will be okay. Don’t worry, Jack.’, only a minute ago.

Having left his gun on the desk had seemed like a trap at first, but now that Arthur’s fingers curled around the cold metal and this caused Eames to stop in his tracks… it probably had been left there unintentionally after all.

“How foolish of me to leave it there unattended when I showed Jack the way out.” Arthur wasn’t sure if that was meant to be sarcastic, and if it was; whether it had been genuine or bluffed. Either way, Eames now stood almost awkwardly in the middle of the room, all of his attention solely focused on his pet.

“Is it loaded?” Arthur asked, lifting the gun in his hands and trying to guess its weight. It was surprisingly heavy. The boy leaned back in his chair, looking at the Colonel from the corner of his eye.

“Do you think I’d leave a loaded gun on my desk like that?” Eames countered, crossing his arms and raising his left eyebrow. The boy pursed his lips around the toothpick and glanced back at the Glock.  
Eames’ comment had held no agitation to it, not even impatience, let alone; worry. Just like a couple of minutes ago, they were playing another game… Threading gingerly around one another but never actually taking their sights off the other.

“Why would you carry an unloaded weapon around with you?” The American muttered, pulling up his legs in the chair so he could scoot his back against the armrest, facing his body to the Colonel. He tilted the gun up carefully in both hands and took a loose aim over his knees at Eames across from him, one eye squinted. The Colonel’s already smirking lips only widened and bared slightly crooked teeth.

“I’m not carrying it though, am I?” The atmosphere was hesitant, heavy but with a lightness around it because both assumed for each other to be playing a harmless game. But there was always the ‘what if’.

Truth be told, Arthur was a bit upset with how the day had went so far. After all… he had actually enjoyed himself in Eames’ presence and by Eames’ charming sense of humor. The amount of guilt and confusion the boy felt for enjoying himself ‘thanks’ to Eames was much more present than he allowed himself to believe.

The American bravely shoved aside his thoughts and watched as Eames uncrossed his arms and continued to walk towards him with a small smile on his full lips.   
He smiled reassuringly, coming to a stop in front of Arthur. The boy tipped his head back, looking up at the Brit, the gun aimed somewhere between pelvis and chest as his wrists rested on knobby knees.

Arthur swallowed all of the words that wanted to spill from his mouth. Sentences claiming that he’d shoot him, that he didn’t had have fun just now, that he didn’t want Eames to cut his hair… that he didn’t want to be in his presence any longer!  
But all of those would be lies. All of them.

The boy’s chest tightened almost painfully as he started to grasp the truthful reasons for his (normally rebellious) mindset’s decay.   
Arthur was beginning to enjoy Eames’ presence, his jokes and his smirks and his odd o-legged strut…  
After the fight they’d had the day before, something in the American’s reasoning had shifted, manipulated into a different shape and thought process. The Colonel had left him alone after their fight, giving Arthur plenty of time to maul over his ideas and reasoning until in the end he’d been satisfied with the outcome.

He’d hurt Eames. He’d been disrespectful in the past, had rebelled more than could be counted on one hand and all the while his master had just wanted to help him in the only way that could be seen fit in the current war.   
And though Arthur was sure his stubborn pride would kick-start into overdrive once again in the very near future, and though Arthur was sure Eames wasn’t as kind as he sometimes portrayed himself to be… the boy still felt an inexplicable -yet undeniable- need to please his master. He figured out, last night when he woke up -sweating and panting- from another nightmare, that what was the main cause for Arthur’s irrational reasoning and subdued tendencies was hope.

Arthur hoped for a better future. Arthur hoped Eames was who he said he was. Arthur more so hoped that his days of loneliness and fending for himself, that the times where he’d comfort his mother because of his father’s death, that the years of restlessness and fighting would be over… The boy hoped, even wished and tried desperately to believe that Eames would take care of him, that the man would take care of his life and protect him.

That’s what he promised, right? It was only Arthur’s stubborn pride getting in the way of things.   
If only he’d allow Eames to prove the things he’d promised the boy… He’d been given lovely food, plenty of baths and a soft, warm pillow to sleep on…

Arthur owed Eames. Stolen freedom be damned… He owed the man pretty damn much.

“You can stop thinking now.” The Colonel spoke with an almost kind tone in his voice before he rested his thumb between the kid’s eyebrows, rubbing as if to soothe his thoughts. Arthur only now noticed how harshly he was trembling. The gun in his hands rattled as he was unable to keep it still.

“I understand you’re upset, Arthur.” Eames spoke calmly, traveling his thumb up over the American’s forehead and then placing his hand on top of the kid’s head in a gentle manner. Arthur dipped his chin to his chest and watched as the Colonel’s long fingers wrapped around his small hands. His own breathing sounded loud in his ears.

“It’s okay, Darling… You mustn’t worry.” Arthur slowed down his breathing forcefully, though his lungs felt tight with tension and once more he succeeded rather quickly in disregarding the eerie feeling the praise of ‘Darling‘ would normally bring upon him. The Colonel’s fingers stroked through his hair, scratching his scalp lightly whilst his other hand started to loosen the kid’s grip from the Glock.

“You’ve fought so well for the past month, haven’t you?” Arthur could only nod, his mind completely blank as he listened to Eames’ words, though he vaguely was somewhat impressed that the Colonel had caught up on what exactly was bothering his pet this quickly.  
The Brit carefully took the gun from Arthur, hushing softly and then tugged it behind his belt on his back.

Another large hand came to rest on one of the boy’s knees as the man leaned a bit forward, searching the kid’s eyes with his’.

“You can fight again tomorrow, yeah?” He stroked over the boy’s head, the pad of his thumb massaging behind Arthur’s ear while his other fingers wrapped around the nape of the pet’s neck.

“Let’s just enjoy ourselves tonight, hm? Relax.” The Brit paused and after another squeeze in the boy’s neck, Arthur nodded and glanced up at his master, still breathing deep and slow.

“Good boy, keep breathing like that, yeah?… Such a clever boy, Arthur.”

Eames smiled, eyes genuine and lips soft-looking, a deep hum making notice of his approval before he pulled his hands away and took Arthur’s toothpick from between his lips, discarding it on his desk as he straightened up. The boy would’ve been irritated by the praises one would give to a dog… But he couldn’t now… Not now that they started to held meaning to him, now that they actually made him feel good rather than bad as they‘d done in the beginning.

“Stand.” Eames demanded after another couple of minutes filled only with the sound of Arthur containing his panic attack and the almost-awkward atmosphere lingering between both men’s eye contact.

The boy slid his feet from the chair onto the cold floor before he rose from his seat. Arthur felt a bit woozy, his knees wobbly and his head light, but still he obeyed. At least his heart had slowed down its pace to a more normal rhythm and his longs felt capable again to fill their selves fully with much-needed oxygen.

Eames beckoned him over with his hand, nodding reassuringly. Arthur wasn’t sure what the man wanted, but the fight against his earlier fit of anxiety and the mental repetition of going through the eye-opening knowledge that he was starting to accept this ’enemy’ into his life, well… it had exhausted him.  
Not to mention his chest was still warm with the shared amusement and joking around only about half an hour ago when Jack had been among them.

Arthur just was tired.

The boy’s heart skipped a beat when Eames pulled him into his arms, but other than that, the American just went with it and he downright nuzzled himself into the strong and warm chest in front of him.  
The only streak of rebellion left within him was shown through his arms which hung lifelessly at his sides, refusing to return the man’s embrace. It was a poor excuse of stubbornness though, because the adolescent’s nose was buried in the lovely-scented shirt of the Colonel and his eyes closed even before his body leaned in and eventually sagged heavily into Eames.

“Do you know why I’m embracing you, Arthur?” Eames muttered after a while, his lips moved against the kid’s hair, breath brushing the strands. The boy’s brain seemed to spark back awake at the man’s voice. His heart picked up its pace which had been calm and slow seconds ago.

Arthur remained quiet, the high -which seemed to have been caused by the warmth and scent of Eames’ closeness, bringing along an eerie nostalgic sense of safety and security- was slowly subsiding as the boy’s irritated demeanor desperately tried to climb back to the surface.

“It’s your reward, yeah?” The Colonel almost cryptically answered before starting to pull back away from his pet.   
The American on his turn blinked open his eyes and took a step back, wondering what exactly he’d been rewarded for but far too stuck-up to ask the man. Also, he was far too distracted with the stinging cold he felt when being removed from the man’s arms.

“Go have a seat.” He waved a hand at the chair behind Arthur and the boy groggily sat down, watching Eames go through the set of scissors and razors. They were a bit rusted on the handles and idly the kid wondered if anyone had ever been killed by one of the objects.

He optioned for the negative and straightened his back when Eames paced around to the back of the chair in which he was seated. With both hands and a knee, the Colonel scooted the furniture towards his desk until both of the boy’s thighs were underneath it.

“Why didn’t you punish me when I took your gun?” Arthur blurted before he even realized he’d been pondering over it. Eames audibly paused in his tracks behind the kid. After a second or two the Brit began combing the kid’s hair as he replied.

“Would you rather have been punished, Pet?”

“No, that’s not what I mea-”

“It was my own mistake, wasn’t it?” A snip could be heard as Eames cut some of the long hairs resting on Arthur’s neck before he continued.

“You only did what your instincts told you to.”

“I didn’t plan on shooting you, though.” Arthur murmured, dipping his head when Eames pushed it gently with the hand holding the comb.

“You didn’t?”

“No.. I just was curious, I guess. I wanted to see what you’d do.”

“You wanted to see if I’d be afraid?” The Brit asked before dangling a rather long pluck of pitch-black hair in front of the kid’s face. Arthur scoffed.

“Was it loaded?” The American countered instead, refusing to answer to something he wasn’t even sure of.

“Do you really think I’d ever bring along an unloaded weapon, Pet?”

“… No.”

“There’s your answer then.” Eames’ smile was obvious in his voice and before Arthur could go further on the subject, the Brit urged his head to the side and ended the conversation with a stern ‘keep still’.

Throughout the haircut Arthur noted two things. One; Eames was terribly good at bluffing, lying and manipulating what people thought of him (hence the calm he’d been radiating when Arthur had pointed a loaded gun at him) and two; said manipulations had caused for Arthur to let his guard down.

After all… If Eames was this good at bluffing with possible death looking him in the eye… Surely, ‘taking care’ of a teenage American would be a piece of cake for him.

And though Arthur should be glad with his re-found suspicions and paranoia towards his master (when earlier he’d almost given in to the assumption and hope that the man was truly a kind caretaker) the boy only felt the pit in his stomach grow heavier as he realized he could not come to trust Eames after all… and the man probably did not care for him in the genuine meaning of the word.

Eames could not be read. Eames could not at all be trusted.  
He was the enemy, he’d taken Arthur’s freedom and pranced him around as a dog between the four walls that were the boy’s luxurious yet-none-the-less captive cage.   
The Colonel of England’s military, the Brit who’d embarrassed him, punished him and then treated him with false kindness could not possibly be the savior in Arthur’s tale.

The boy could not expect for someone to reach out a hand and drag him out of the shit that was his life, out of the dirt and gravel of this world.

Most of all, Arthur should not hope even though he could so easily, for Eames to find it within him to come to love the boy to such degree where he‘d take him away from all this mess and lead him to freedom and safety.

Freedom wasn’t of this time and safety never went hand in hand with it.

 


	21. What Really Lies Beyond the Constraints of My Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy oh boy oh boy... I hope you're all a tad perverted because... this chapter... lemme tell ya
> 
> WARNINGS: shoe worship, unhygienic shoe worshipping! also mentioning of castration and murder.  
> A+ if you remember 'Jean-Pierre'.

  
**Part Twenty**   
_\- What Really Lies Beyond the Constraints of My Mind? -_   


_March, 2051. (one month later)_

The day had been agonizingly long and filled with unforeseen obstructions in the paperwork Eames was in charge of.   
It had taken him well into the early hours before he’d finally allowed himself to call it a night. At least Saito had been pleased to see his right-hand take care of the foolish errors with almost-mocking ease.

Eames’ throat ached, caused by the large amount of fags he’d smoked and his stomach curled in on itself every other couple of minutes because the Brit hadn’t bothered to take a break and put some food in it.

He wasn’t in a bad mood particularly, he just really wanted to get some bloody sleep, ‘s all.

Nevertheless, when he walked into his bedroom and found Arthur seated on his knees on the floor awaiting him, Eames couldn’t find an ounce within himself that regretted the inevitable delay of his sleeping plans.

“Arthur?” Eames’ voice went from surprised to feigned calm, trying to hide his confusion at the last moment.

The boy looked up for a second before casting his gaze back down to his lap in which both of his hands rested on thighs.   
Eames vaguely smiled at how well the clothes fit the boy. He’d had Jack run errands and find some clothes adjusted to the Yank’s measurements. The Soldier had returned in the evening with a humble bag of green and navy-blue outfits and as well a pair of fairly new shoes (though a size too large).

That had been, what, three weeks ago?   
The deep blue of Arthur’s shirt hadn’t lost much of its intense color even though it was the kid’s favorite and had been in the laundry more than five times.

Though the Colonel wanted to allow himself to get distracted by the sharp collarbones peeking above the collar of Arthur’s shirt, he knew there was something far more important going on… Being, the Yank’s oddly submissive state.

He acted as if in punishment and with a frown Eames gently kicked the door behind him shut. As he took off his brown suit-jacket, hanging it over the back of the chair that stood besides his dresser, he started to talk.

“Tell me what’s going on, Arthur.” Eames demanded, his voice stern as his instincts told him Arthur were to be punished for something or the other. The Colonel brushed a hand over his slicked down hair before starting to roll up his sleeves and walking towards his pet.

He stopped in front of him, a tad too close, making the boy desire to move back away… which of course, he didn’t.

“Arthur?” He urged, frowning before pressing the toe of his shoe against the boy’s knee. The Yank jumped slightly before blinking rapidly.

Eames was still pleased with the haircut he’d given him. His bangs (when not slicked back with a sinful amount of rather expensive wax) were not long enough to cover the boy’s eyes. Not to mention how short it had been cropped on the back and bottom of his skull, revealing the pale nape of his neck… one of Eames’ ‘dirty little secret favorite spots’ on the kid’s body. (He smoothly ignored there being any more spots he felt an odd fascination towards on this teenager’s flawless figure).

“I ruined your pair of Italian wing-tips.” Arthur hastily spoke, all words clipped together.

“You… ruined my Italian shoes?” Eames asked, confused and just a moment away from bewildered. The Yank nodded, still looking down and appearing almost tiny as he sat on the floor in front of the standing Colonel. It had been ages since the last time Arthur had actually ruined something materialistically.

“Those are my favorites.”

“Yes, Sir.” The Brit quirked a brow at the two-word rule being put into action… It was official now that Arthur assumed himself to be in a session of punishment. Eames’ would’ve considered it rude for having the Yank decide himself when to be punished but… the choking heath in his tummy told him to go with it.

“What did you do to them?” The boy took a deep breath at that, the fingers on his thighs twitching.

“I hit them repeatedly on the floor and damaged them with any sharp object I came across-”

“Such as?”

“Belt-buckle, Sir.” Eames waited for any anger to coil but instead he just looked down at Arthur with much amusement (which he hid splendidly well from his voice). Arthur, bless his little heart, could be rather imaginative when he was in a streak of anger, while appearing so dull at other times.

“And?”

“And a handle of the dresser, Sir.” Eames glanced over his shoulder at the dresser shortly but didn’t notice any damage to the curly, metal knobs at this distance.

“Alright. Something else you did to them?” He asked, looking back at the Yank. The boy fumbled at that, his fingers folding together as he shifted slightly on his knees. His movements were stiff and Eames wondered how long exactly Arthur had been seated on the hard floor like this.

“I dumped them in the toilet, Sir.”

“You dum-”

“And flushed repeatedly…”

“Bloody hell, Arthur… Why?” Eames nearly groaned, wondering why the kid had acted up once again after their peaceful ‘life’ for two weeks in a row. He’d actually somewhat had hoped and expected that Arthur’s stubborn, rebellious days were of the past… Still, flushing Eames’ shoes in a toilet was child’s play in contrary to his big-mouthing and office-ruination months ago.

“They were annoying me, Sir.”

“They were annoying you… how?” Eames took a step closer and smiled softly when he noticed Arthur’s shoulders pulling up a bit as his body instinctively coiled away from the man in front of him.

“I’m… not sure, Sir.”

“Arthur, cut the crap and answer the question.” The boy hesitated and when a full minute of silence passed, Eames was certain the American wouldn’t reply any longer.

“Right.” The Brit sighed a bit more dramatic than necessary before walking away from the boy, patience long gone. Though Eames felt a bit proud to see Arthur bite his tongue rather than bark back in terms of rebelling, he was agitated with the fact that the American still wasn’t obeying properly.

But it was a step in the good direction. Arthur obviously was learning to keep his anger composed, he was starting to figure out that ‘having the last word’ wasn’t always the smartest thing to go by.

“Do you like to be punished, Arthur?” Eames called over his shoulder, though his gaze wasn’t directed at his pet but more so was it traveling around the room in search of his various pairs of shoes.

“No, Sir.” His voice was soft. The lack of actual fight in it was startling. But Eames had had a feeling from the moment he’d stepped into the bedroom that there was more going on than the Yank let out to be.

He wasn’t sure yet… what exactly was off.

“Then why do you keep acting up like this, hm?” The Brit calmly paced around, picking up pairs of shoes when he found them in corners or bottom drawers.

“I don’t know, Sir.”

“Of course you don’t… You seem to be a tad daft lately.” The Colonel complained, walking back to the boy (who still sat on his knees on the floor) carrying five pairs of shoes in his arms. He’d chosen to leave out his military boots… instead opting for his more delicate expensive pairs.

Eames came to a stop in front of his pet, dropping the shoes abruptly and watching Arthur flinch as they tumbled onto the wooden floorboards, one of them hitting him on his left knee.

“Eyes up.” The Brit placed both of his hands on his hips, his legs slightly spread, as Arthur tipped back his head and looked up at him. His brown eyes looked soft, his brow furrowed in poorly-hidden worry and again Eames wondered what it was that seemed off… There was something in Arthur’s demeanor that was very unusual, uncharacteristic even, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on to what it was.

When he took a moment to hold the eye contact, he noticed the boy starting to cringe at the awkward, if not intimate, atmosphere.

“Undress.” Arthur obeyed immediately (bless him) but Eames clacked his tongue quickly.

“Ah-ah, eyes up, Arthur.” The boy paused mid-pulling-up-his-shirt and blinked in confusion up at his master.

Having the Yank naked during punishment and discipline sessions was purely a touch of added embarrassment on the boy’s part (no other reasons for having him naked, mind you) and had been done so many times before. But allowing- or more so demanding for him to take part in eye contact during a session hadn’t been done before.

Eames didn’t know exactly why… but having the Yank undress himself whilst both their gazes locked, added a vibrant thrill to the event and the Colonel felt his tummy flip pleasantly.

“Where are the Italian wing-tips?” The Brit asked casually, never looking away from Arthur while the boy pulled the shirt over his head, arms crossed and then folded it neatly before placing it besides him on the floor.

“I gave them to Jean-Pierre, Sir.” Eames raised one eyebrow at that before he nodded when Arthur questionably shifted to get up so he could remove his trousers.

Jean-Pierre was in charge of Eames’ errands such as cooking, laundry and cleaning. Basically he was the cleaning-lady you never saw but somehow always succeeded in getting everything in order when your back was turned.   
The Frenchman was also left in charge for taking care of Arthur during Eames’ absence. Though the boy was allowed to bathe himself and sleep or read whenever he pleased to, Jean-Pierre was there to bring him food and check if there was anything the kid needed.

The fact that the middle-aged man was one of Eames’ most loyal right-hands, wasn’t the only thing that allowed him to be alone in Arthur’s presence.  
The Colonel was very picky of whom he left alone with Arthur. The soldiers guarding the ‘bunkers’ which he called home, were never allowed to talk to Arthur, let alone touch him or even so much as enter the bedroom unless the boy craved instant medical attention.

No, one of the main reasons Jean-Pierre had the ‘privilege’ to somewhat interact with the kid on a minimum level was because of his handicap.   
The man had been castrated, though ‘butchered’ would be a more accurate description for the lack of genitalia, when he’d been in his twenties.

As far as the ‘rumor’ went, Jean-Pierre had been fooling around with quite the lovely young lady back in his day. Unfortunately for him she’d been a Yank and as the war had just begun to grow and take over the nations at that time, it had been enough reason for the Americans to torture and amputate him and as well slaughter the girl to throw her somewhere in a sewer after her body had been abused in the most sickening ways imaginable.

Jean-Pierre had never confirmed nor denied the rumor but Eames had been a witness to his state down below and it had been one of the only rare sights in the Brit’s life that had made him cringe.  
Either way, the Frenchman could be trusted for a great amount to not violate Eames’ pet (with or without handicap).

Eames remembered how lucky Arthur actually was, when he recalled the things he’d seen and heard in his life so far. The world was ugly and cold, he’d be damned to throw this kid out, EVER.

“Eyes down and back on your knees.” Eames commanded when the boy was completely naked and watched Arthur obey perfectly.

“Now, Arthur, something’s bothering me here.” The Brit began, taking a step closer so he could lean a bit forward and take a self indulgent glance at the nape of Arthur’s neck. The toes of his shoes rested against the kid’s knees and Eames tapped his foot a couple of times just so Arthur could feel the soft leather of the sole brush against his naked skin.

“You’re uncharacteristically subdued, why’s that?”

“Because I did something wrong, Sir.”

“Yet you’re not willing to tell me ‘why’ you did it, why?”

“I just want to get this over with, Sir. Please just punish me so we can move on.” Eames huffed, partially because he was annoyed that Arthur refused to answer his question directly, but more so because he felt a clinging heat crawl up his spine at the boy’s ‘pleading for punishment’.

“None of that, Pet. You’re going to answer me properly or we’ll be here all night.” Another pause followed and again Arthur seemed to hesitate.

“I’m actually starting to believe you desire to be disciplined, is it not?” The boy’s shoulders tensed at Eames’ whisper and he dared to glance up at him for a split second.

“No, Sir… I just want to get it over with. I don’t desire it.”

“Then answer the bloody question.” Again the boy remained quiet and Eames at that point was pretty sure Arthur was messing with him. The kid was foolishly trying to make the Brit believe he was actually a good boy ready to be punished for the things he’d done wrong… yet on the other hand he was mocking the Englishman by having him repeat his question three times and not giving a shit to answer.

“Tell you what. You decide your punishment, act it out and I’ll see if it pleases me enough to let you go to bed tonight, yeah? If not, you’re not getting food the next two days and no lying down either, at all.” This again was something new which they hadn’t done before, but at this point Eames was getting very agitated and he basically wanted to see the boy flail and fidget with the freedom of deciding over his own misery.

The five pairs of shoes surrounding him should be enough of a hint. After all, Eames desired for the boy to clean and polish all his shoes and afterwards perhaps some corner time and honest words of regret and apology.

Nevertheless, Eames could hardly ever have been prepared for Arthur’s choice of punishment.  
The next thing the Colonel knew, the Yank scooted a bit back before his petite body curled forwards, elbows planted on the floor and hands splayed down flat on each side of Eames’ feet.   
The kid’s face hovered above the Brit’s shoes before he finally inched closer towards the brown Oxfords.

And then Eames could feel, through the thin leather, how something broad flattened out over the bridge of his foot, stroking upwards slowly before the sensation got dulled by the thin laces.  
The Yank pulled back slightly, moving to Eames’ other foot and repeated dragging his tongue in the same slow lick over the expensive leather.

While the Colonel basically forgot to breathe, he could feel an undeniable surge of endorphins shoot towards his brain and doing a u-turn back down to his groin.

In a hundred years, Eames would not have believed Arthur would ever lick his shoes clean at his own free will. By far this was the most submissive aspect Arthur had ever participated in throughout their relationship and it made the Brit want to groan and lock himself up in the bathroom so he could attend multiple cold showers throughout the night.

Instead he stayed quiet, not outing a word or moving an inch, just looking down on the beautiful contours of Arthur’s body. His long neck, elegant shoulders, visible ribs and down to his girlishly narrow waist, one fluid line guided by his pale back’s spine.

Eames had to exhale heavily though when the boy tilted his head so he could swipe his tongue along the outer-side of the right Oxford. The pink muscle glistened almost perversely against the dull leather of the shoe, the saliva leaving a smooth trail on the material. Arthur’s eyelids which had been closed before, fluttered open at the sound of the exhale and he looked up at Eames’ with an unreadable look in his eyes.

With clenched jaws he urged down the flush that wanted to crawl up his cheeks and the Brit tried his best to sound unimpressed when he told Arthur to keep his eyes closed.   
Arthur obeyed and continued licking every inch of Eames’ Oxfords that he could reach, though he stayed away from the soles about which the Brit -heart thumping like mad- couldn’t even bother to be upset about.

The Yank’s pace was slow, his tongue dragging from toe to heel and with that his whole body followed along. Eames’ grey eyes had a hard time deciding whether to observe the kid’s back, neck, head or tongue.   
But he ended up glancing at Arthur’s hands on the floor, noting with interest how the fingers were curled as if to dig nails into the floorboards. Judging from the relaxed state of his face and the way his body did not even shiver or hesitate, Eames was certain those fingers weren’t cramped up like that because of disgust… in contrary…

Arthur’s soft moan convinced his earlier assumptions and Eames took a shuddering breath, in awe of this pet taking great pleasure in basically snogging inanimate objects.

Minutes passed and the boy’s breathing slowly became more labored, his movements increased in pace and urgency, hips rolling so softly it would not be noticed were you not looking for it, and Eames felt as if he’d been punched in the gut when he confirmed that Arthur…

Darling, little Arthur, was in fact getting off on this as much as Eames was.


	22. Everyday is Silent and Grey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was listening to Explosions in the Sky and all of the sudden Eames' has a past...  
> (music influences writing style A LOT)

  
**Part Twenty-one**   
_\- Everyday is Silent and Grey -_   


Whether it was the scent, the texture or perhaps even the taste of it- Arthur only knew he wanted to keep licking the leather until his tongue turned raw. Then afterwards maybe he’d rub his lips over the soft material, perhaps even his nose and cheek… anything to keep the high going.

The American felt warm all over, inside and out, his joints seemed to have gone liquid and the sparks in his tummy prickled through his chest and his throat. Arthur was burning up, his cheeks a bright pink that reached the tips of his out-sticking ears.   
Even his fingers trembled when they cradled both heels from the Oxfords.

His tongue dragged slow, hungry swipes over the toe and bridge until he ended up brushing his lips over the rough laces. Arthur nipped at the little bow shaped knot before he uttered a strained sigh and moved on to the other shoe.

With his heart beating too fast, his breathing being too ragged and a metaphorical drunken haze clogging his common sense, Arthur became desperate for something he wasn’t even aware of wanting.

And what the boy wanted was a hell lot more than Eames’ shoes.

For as much as the current situation looked highly appealing in sensual ways and for as much as both men’s blood rushed south to build and throb, ‘this’ was anything but sexual.  
What Arthur’s subconscious sought by lying on the floor, naked, licking Eames’ shoes, was all but sexual. What he wanted out of this - as well - was anything but sexual.

Arthur didn’t need a reward. He didn’t need Eames to tell him he’d been forgiven. The boy didn’t even want the Colonel to be pleased with his pet.

What Arthur wanted - yet had no clue at that time he did - was confirmation.

The boy’s chest was tight with a want and his mind confused with a needy longing for Eames to confirm Arthur was his pet. Arthur was his’. Arthur was his little boy. Arthur belonged to Eames.

At that time though, the adolescent had not a single clue of his own subconscious and just suffered the aggravating mood-swings and mental disorientation brought along with the suppressed truths.  
There was a war raging in his mind and he’d never be sure about what the battle was about until there’d be a winner and a loser.

“Please…” Arthur whispered, or more so groaned, when he started to rub his nose over the crisscross laces. The boy inhaled deeply, the scent of leather and his own saliva sending a wave of heat down into his tummy.  
He had no clue what exactly he was begging for but he couldn’t stop the word from slipping either way. The urge to make a sound, to form a word and to exhale heavily as if in physical pain, were too strong to defeat.

Not to mention, the American wasn’t thinking clearly. Every nerve-ending trembled and every little hair stood risen in attention as instincts took over.

The boy didn’t hear Eames when the man softly called his name. Instead Arthur just rubbed his cheek over the smooth toe of the Oxford, his fingers tightening their grip on the heels, before his lips once more brushed over fabric.

The only things Arthur noted were how much he desired to devour these shoes with his tongue and his lungs. Just to taste and breathe these steady feet placed in front of him, toes pointing out in confidence, the soles gripping easily on the wooden floorboard.  
Somewhere deep in the back of Arthur’s mind… he absolutely craved the grounded seduction Eames’ posture brought along. An alluring sense of stability, certainty and protection.

An anchor he desperately clung to.

Arthur allowed the shivers to roll down his spine freely, his body swaying on elbows and knees as he arched his neck so he could press his nose against a clothed ankle, brushing aside a pants-leg. With eyes half-lid, Arthur dully noted irritation at the yellow dots on red fabric, but the clean scent of Eames’ socks made him forget.

“Arthur…” Eames breathed, voice tight.

“Arthur, I-”

In the very near future Arthur would be grateful for the abrupt interruption of Jack slamming his knuckles against Eames’ bedroom-door with such force it made the soldier curse straight after.  
Yet, in a future later down the line, Arthur would remember today and break his head over the endless possibilities of what Eames had wanted to say to the boy.  
His pride would never allow him to ask and thus he’d never know.

“For fuck’s sake, Jack! What the hell is it?!” Eames shouted, his feet pulling away at the same time Arthur inhaled sharply, his eyes snapping open and his hands removing themselves from the Oxfords.

The boy watched confused, curled up on the floor, as Eames stalked towards the door and swung it open angrily. His body, now more than ever, seemed to be all bulk and threat.   
The American’s own body though, felt small, his stomach heavy and lungs tight as if he’d been dropped in a tank of ice cold water.

A session of hushed whispers followed when Eames leaned closer towards Jack who stood in the doorway, swaying his body from one foot to the other, his eyes shifting nervously from Eames’ face to his chest and then to the frame of the door.

Arthur wouldn’t have been able to eavesdrop even if he’d wanted to. Nevertheless, at that moment he was too stunned at what had happened to actually care about what they were talking about anyways.

What the fuck had he been doing exactly?!

Not only was Arthur horrified with the fact he’d been downright making out with Eames’ shoes (EAMES’ SHOES!) like some spineless, submissive… s-slut, but even more so was he nauseated with the fact he was fully aroused by said ‘sluttish act’.

The boy stumbled to his feet quickly. He cupped his erection and bit back bile while glancing at the two men at the entrance. When he noted that Eames and Jack were too busy hissing at each other (or more so Eames growling with his finger pointing and poking against the nose of a frightened-looking Jack), the American dashed to the bathroom and slammed the door shut behind him.

Arthur had never been this grateful for a lock on a door before and as the secure ‘click’ echoed in the tiny bathroom, the boy allowed himself to sag against a wall and down to the floor.

* * *

 

It was only half an hour after Arthur had locked himself in the bathroom (and Eames had left the bedroom altogether) that the Colonel returned to knock on the door against which the boy’s back was leaning.

Luckily that had been plenty of time for the kid to fight down the misplaced erection as well as the vomit that had so desperately tried to crawl up and spill. Nevertheless, he still felt out of breath, as if thirty minutes had not been enough for his lungs to properly fill themselves with air. His inhales were sharp, exhales thick.

“Arthur, open the door, I have an emergency meeting in half an hour and I need to freshen up.“ Eames’ voice sounded a tad too high-pitched for Arthur to actually believe he was as calm as the words had been pronounced as.

Instead of obeying, the American just groaned under his breath and wrapped his long arms around the knobby knees which he’d pulled up to his chest and under his chin.  
There was no way he could face Eames now… Not only half an hour later after-… whatever it had been that had happened.

“Arthur?” The Colonel’s voice was soft, alluring to Arthur’s uncertainty and anxiety.

“I can’t open the door.” Arthur called back, biting off the ‘sir’ he’d almost pronounced at the end of the sentence. They weren’t in a session anymore… there was absolutely no need for the boy to call Eames’ ‘sir’.

“Why’s that, Pet?” The boy frowned at the soft tone, his words rolled almost kindly from his British tongue and the lack of agitation confused Arthur.

“Arthur…” Eames sighed after another moment of silence. The sigh wasn’t persé caused by annoyance.

“Darling, listen… This meeting is important and I haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours… I just-… Be a doll and just get me my shaving-kit, yeah? I’ll get ready somewhere else.” The boy’s mind screamed that he shouldn’t be fooled by the kind tones, nor by the reasonable offer.

_‘He’s the enemy!’, ‘He’s a natural born deceiver!’, ‘He can bluff his way through anything!’, ‘He’s going to hurt you!’, ‘He’s going to punish you!’._

But nonetheless, Arthur rose on shaky limbs and proceeded to wrap a towel around his hips before turning to face the door.

His heart was beating fast and his throat was dry and though he wondered whatever happened to his paranoid mind-set and his need to disobey and rebel against this man he used to see as a monster, as well did Arthur realize Eames was all but that and the Brit could be very reasonable if only the boy would respect him and not act up.

“Where is it?” Arthur asked with a shaky voice, his nose brushing absently against the wood of the door along with his forehead.

“Good boy, Arthur. It’s in the bottom shelve, behind the towels, yeah?” Arthur nodded automatically before he turned on his bare heels and went to squat in front of the small cabin against the opposite wall.

He grimly noted, when opening the small wooden box in his hands, that he could’ve killed Eames in his sleep countless times by now with the sharp razors which he found glistening at him. Nonetheless he hadn’t know about the kit having been ‘hidden’ behind the pile of towels, if said kit had even been there from the start… Arthur highly doubted Eames being stupid enough to leave such weapons lying around, especially after Arthur had been allowed to sleep without being handcuffed to the particular floorboard underneath the man’s bed.

With a huff he closed the box and walked back to the bathroom door.

Though Arthur feared Eames as he unlocked the door - and had feared the man since day one - he’d never really considered murdering the Brit.   
For starters the thought of taking a life made his stomach knot and flip, but more so because there was no way out. Especially if he’d kill the Colonel. There was nowhere to go. He wouldn’t even be able to take two steps outside of whichever secure room he’d be located in, before a soldier would blow his brains out.

The reasoning for not slaughtering Eames in his sleep had changed overtime…. But held no shame in how convinced said reasoning were. It were just the ‘why’s’ that had evolved to something that made the kid snarl, nonetheless held too great of power over the boy’s conscience to be shoved aside and denied fully.

When the door opened, only ajar, Eames peeked to look inside. His smile was small, but far more genuine than the normal broad-all-teeth-wolfish grins.

“Alright, Love?” He asked, the endearment which held no honest adoration fell easily from his lips and Arthur just nodded before passing the shaving-kit.

Eames looked tired when Arthur observed him closely enough. Now was the right opportunity, as the Brit leaned against the door while inspecting the wooden box to be filled with all contents.   
His face seemed more pale, the bags under his eyes darker, his full lips were chapped and dry and though the boy wasn’t sure if it was played by the bad lighting of the room but, even the Brit’s cheeks seemed more hollow than they had been weeks ago.

When Arthur looked back up to re-inspect the wrinkles between the man’s furrowed brows, their eyes met. It wasn’t unlikely Eames had been observing the boy observe him and Arthur cursed himself mentally for ever thinking he could be sly enough around this Brit.

“You mustn’t worry, Arthur…” The American straightened his back, the hand which rested on the doorknob, squeezed around it tightly.

“You did very well today. I accept your choice of punishment and discipline…” His gray eyes flickered away for a second before he continued.

“The act showed enough regret. It’s not necessary to once more apologize with words.” Arthur hardly believed that what he’d done before actually had been an outing of apology. It had been a disgusting desire and request for confirmation, something even he himself couldn’t quite understand at that time.

But, when Arthur watched the man in front of him, soft eyes and kind smile, he guessed that what had happened only half an hour ago had been the most submissive act performed -lived- by the boy so far.  
Not because of the perversion itself, but because it had been Arthur’s initiative. It had been Arthur, willingly bending over, opening his mouth and sticking out his tongue to stroke it languidly -almost lovingly- over the inanimate objects that belonged to his master (were part of his master).

If that hadn’t been a genuine apology for having ruined a pair of Eames’ shoes (a fling at rebellion which had not been about shoes but about a desire to ruin something of Eames, anything that would at least disappoint the man)… well, what more could the boy have done?

And yet still… Arthur’s throat felt tight with the three words that wanted to confirm he did actually regret ruining a pair of wing-tips that held meaning to Eames. The Brit had been most fond of the pair he never actually wore but always seemed to polish and maintain with great care. The only pair Arthur wasn’t allowed to clean in punishment (or outside of).   
The Italian wingtips had aged beautifully and two months in Arthur‘s stay, Eames had shared the true meaning as to why he was fond of the inanimate objects as much as had been obvious to Arthur’s observant eyes.

_‘They belonged to my father.’_

It had been all he’d said about the leather shoes. He’d said it without emotion in his voice, only a second of eye contact with Arthur before he’d turned around to put the freshly polished wing-tips back in his closet.

But the thin smile, the split second in which he’d allowed his shoulders to slug, the subtle avoidance of eye contact and possible continuation of one-sided conversation, by turning his back to the boy who’d been staring curiously -questionably- as Eames had been polishing the shoes for more hours than would ever have been necessary… well… Arthur wasn’t a fool and knew right away the Brit had a past worth grieving over.

Just like himself…

“I won’t be back for another five to six hours. Try and get some sleep, Darling.” Arthur flinched when Eames reached out his free hand, but still he maintained eye contact when the Brit patted his head.

He turned around then, his back looking more broad in his dark green coat, the black patches on the shoulders held little designs Arthur did not know the meaning off but he was sure they meant quite a lot.

When Eames grabbed his visor hat from where he’d left it on the dresser, Arthur felt his tongue tremble with the three words. He should say something… he’d done something terrible… had ruined a memoir of Eames’ past. Objects that held scents and memories of a possible childhood… something Arthur wished dearly to have from his old life.

But he didn’t

Eames did, but not anymore, thanks to him.

The visor hat got placed on top of the man’s slicked-back hair and when he opened the door Arthur stuttered an incoherent word as he stumbled out of the bathroom.

Eames looked over his shoulder in surprise. His face soft and Arthur felt angry at the Brit for not being upset, for not shouting at the boy, for not hurting him more, punishing him more, for not allowing him to repent and come clean!

“Arthur?”

But more so… as many times before… Arthur felt so fucking angry at himself.  
He was such a stupid boy… such a silly, young, little, whiny, idiotic boy.

“I am sorry!” Arthur spoke too loud, though it wasn’t a shout, just a nervous twitch in his voice.

And if Arthur felt his nose prickle and his throat clog with an unfamiliar thickness, it was because of the months spent in here. For the months being suppressed by a man, for the inability to roam free, the inability to eat when he wanted to, to sleep when he wanted to, for the denial of a whirlwind of emotions that seemed to travel between the two continuously, never subsiding and never taking a break.

It was for the numerous punishments, the embarrasment, the loss of his parents and the loss of his freedom.

It wasn’t because-

Arthur swallowed when Eames nodded softly after the minute long silence between them. His face looked serious, too serious, and as his lips thinned he then turned around, walking out of the room and leaving Arthur on his own.

Arthur was sure, convinced, ABSOLUTELY certain that the loneliness smothering him down had nothing to do with Eames’ abstinence.

And though his nose still prickled and his throat still squeezed, it wasn’t because of Eames.

It wasn’t because Arthur was sorry, it wasn’t because he cared, nor was it because he could see himself in the man that had stolen him from the streets as a lesser of two evils.


	23. They Cannot Taint You in My Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very early update thanks to all the lovely reviews!  
> Enjoy!

 

  
**Part Twenty-Two**   
_\- They Cannot Taint You in My Eyes -_

_April, 2051 (1 month later)_

Never having been too fond of sunny weather and clingy heath, Eames had chosen to discuss business with Saito at a fairly early hour. This also was more likely to go by unnoticed by possible spies.  
Going outside and walking down streets, especially the fairly crowded ones around the one-Sunday-a-month market on Trafalgar Square, was a much more safe option to discuss important matters than indoors would’ve been.

Walls had plenty of ears, mind you.

The possible threat of having crucial information leak to the enemy was also the reason as to why Saito and Eames slipped languages every three-ish sentences, making it a hell lot more difficult to translate everything in context.

It wouldn’t be impossible.  
Just bloody difficult and time-consuming.

Saito was telling Eames about a rising group of rebels in the midst of California, with a nearly perfected Kholmsk dialect, when the Brit spotted a humble crate of red apples to his left. The early sun reflected on the damaged-looking fruits, nonetheless creating an almost heavenly halo around them.

His attention left his boss’ voice and instead focused on a vibrant memory of Arthur. The memory in itself was nearly a month of age, but nonetheless clear as day when he grabbed one of the apples and ignored the nervous stare from the salesman who hid from the sun -and most likely the Colonel- underneath his market-stand.

 _‘What is the earliest memory you have?’_ Eames had asked out of nowhere to the boy who sat on the floor next to his master. The latter had been working on a file, scribbling down with his right hand as his left one rested loosely in the boy’s grip.

Arthur had paused movement, the fingers on Eames’ sleeve twitching momentarily but long enough for the Brit to take notice.

 _‘I’m not comfortable with that question, Sir.’_ He’d murmured around the needle between his lips. Eames shrugged lightly, having given the boy a right to confront his master when he’d feel uncomfortable and the Brit himself was inclined to respect the boy’s emotions on his turn.  
He’d promised, after all.

But after Arthur had resumed with sewing the button back on the sleeve of Eames’ white shirt, he still had replied.

_‘Apples.’_

_‘Apples?’_

Arthur had nodded, his face tight, his thumb absently stroking the little white button in his hands. Eames had observed him closely, more close than he’d normally do, but the boy had hid most emotions from his face very well.  
Yet, the sliver of grief had flashed across his face in the form of a small grimace. Together with the sparkle in his eyes, Eames knew right away it was a positive memory that just had taken a turn for the worse in the end.

It had been a good memory once… perhaps years ago.

 _‘I love apples, Sir.’_ Was the last thing Arthur had said, carefully, before shutting his mouth tightly and resuming the discipline-session of fixing Eames’ shirt.

The man had left him alone after that. He’d never urged for Arthur to tell more about the vague memory. Eames had just locked Arthur’s expressions away in the back of his mind, a place where he kept track of the boy’s deeper layers and emotional progress.

Now, Eames rolled the apple around in his hands, regarding it from all sides, brushing his thumb over dents and scratches. The color was a bit hazed, gloss hidden until he breathed on the fruit and rubbed his sleeve over it. The texture was a bit more soft -Eames noted when pressing his thumb down gently- than would be accepted for a bite-able, juicy piece of fruit.

It was a fair apple, nonetheless. Not only was this particular fruit rare to come across, and bloody expensive for those less fortunate than Eames, but to find one in such a lovely state and vibrant color was pretty much a miracle.

Though Eames suspected the salesman to have stolen these from men more powerful than him, perhaps even from colleagues of Eames himself, he still chose to ignore this fact and he reached out five pennies (which could buy at least three apples and a pear).  
The chubby, aged man was obviously very suspicious but after a grunt from Eames he took the money and bowed to thank him three times.

Saito and Eames continued on their way, walking around the market with soldiers flanking them in case there’d be citizens foolish enough to start trouble. For all the feigned respect citizens practiced upon their superiors, there was double the amount of deception and anger lingering beneath the surface.

“Is that for your pet?” The Japanese man asked after a couple of minutes of silence. Eames glanced at the taller man next to him before he looked back down at the apple in his hand, large and plush, ready to be eaten.

“No.” He lied before putting it in the pocket of his coat.

“You have to treat them sometimes.” Eames knew right away Saito was splaying a trap around the Colonel. Tiny landmines all around where his feet wanted to go. But the Brit threaded carefully, yet with practiced ease, his poker-face and bluffing tactics developed like no other.

“I treat him in enough ways to keep him in hand. Food is not one of those.” Saito rose a meaningful eyebrow at that and Eames smiled thinly.

“I’ve caught word that the pet can speak.” Saito matter-of-factly stated and Eames abruptly stopped in his tracks, luckily enough a young man chose the exact moment to run in front of them and thus it had seemed the Brit had paused merely to not bump into the man who by now was already many feet away.

“He does.” Eames agreed, knowing that lying now would just detonate one of the metaphorical bombs which lied too close at his feet.

“English.” His boss said, it wasn’t a question. Saito most likely knew pretty much everything by now. After all… walls had plenty of ears.

“English.” Eames repeated with a nod, not stating the accent for the sake of weighing out his boss’s knowledge over Arthur.

“Why is it that this has never been shared with me by you, Mr. Eames?” The Brit held back the urge to loosen his tie as the heath of the morning sun as well as Saito’s interrogation were taking their toll on him.

The mere thought of Saito getting agitated at Eames… at Arthur… The endless list of outcomes were enough to make the Colonel feel a bit sick in his stomach.

“My apologies, Lord Saito.” The Colonel said instead, dipping his head a bit in a Japanese mannerism of shame and apology. Saito didn’t say anything and instead resumed to walk, Eames followed smoothly.

“I understand you’re feeling rather possessive over this pet… After all, it is your first one, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“There’s nothing quite like owning a human being for your own benefits as if you were to own an animal or even an inanimate object.” The hairs on the back of Eames’ neck rose at the words of Saito. It was something that many stated as facts but the Brit had never been comfortable with.

“But this gives you no particular right or excuse to keep important facts such as discussed, hidden from me.” Both men paused momentarily when three young boys ran by - one of them looking suspiciously feminine - laughing and panting. Three seconds after, a shouting Indian man followed them, waving what looked like an improvised spatula.

Theft was of all ages, of course, with food being as scarce, and Eames idly wondered how often Arthur had stolen food in his three years on the streets.

“Of course, Sir.” Eames answered Saito when they resumed pacing around Trafalgar Square’s market.

“If another secret is to be kept from me, Eames…” His tone lowered dangerously, words spoken slowly but articulated in near perfect English. The Brit straightened up, his gaze fixed in the distance at nothing in particular, but his ears perked exclusively at his boss.

“I’ll just have to go ahead and find out by myself what it is about this boy that makes you so certain to betray me.” The almost-perverted tone in the man’s voice had made Eames blink a couple of times before he took a deep breath to calm himself.

He’d be bloody damned to have anyone lay a hand on the Yank.

Afterwards they continued their way back to Eames’ district, discussing business as usual and not mentioning Arthur once.  
The warning had been clear as day for Eames and Saito knew as much.

Needless to say, the Brit returned to his home with a heavy knot in his stomach and mixed emotions towards not only his boss but as well his pet.

But as Eames walked through the numerous hallways which connected messily in a giant underground maze, and as his hands dug in pockets only to find the apple in one of them…  
Eames recalled Arthur’s face in his memories. The spark in his eyes and the line of his lips, corners pulled down…

Eames recalled the tone in the boy’s voice when he’d whispered ‘apples’ and as he brushed his thumb over the fruit, pacing towards his bedroom door (behind which Arthur would be waiting for him) the Brit couldn’t help but smile fondly. If not warmly.

Saito was everywhere but in his mind now.

Much to Eames’ disappointment, he wasn’t greeted by the boy when he walked inside of his bedroom. He flicked on the light, which barely was strong enough in its purpose to wake someone in the room.

Arthur was asleep on his pillow, curled into a small ball. His eyelids twitched a bit because of the light having been turned on, but other than that he remained in his deep slumber.

It wasn’t unlikely for the boy to go back to sleep at ten in the morning. Eames could tell he’d been awake because his hair was wet from a shower and the plate of food on the dresser was empty, spare for some crumbs.

Eames made sure to not have his eyes linger too long on the naked shoulder, bony and smooth against the rugged duvet which wrapped around his body.

Arthur had been a lovely boy the past couple of weeks. He was finally starting to grasp what was going on and how to act for his own benefit. The Yank was finally starting to accept not only being a pet, but being Eames’ pet.

Nevertheless, the Colonel still felt as if a part of Arthur was a stranger to him. It was only normal, he guessed… Four months was an awful short time to expose yourself to an enemy having called truce.  
Yet still, Eames experienced this odd, unfamiliar desire, a longing to get to know his pet.

Eames wanted to know every little thing of Arthur. And the more time progressed, the less patient he became and the hungrier he got.  
He wanted to know about the kid’s past, his favorite color, whether he liked animals, what he dreamed about, which were his pet peeves, everything… Eames wanted it all.

But every time he so much dared as to initiate an ‘intimate’ question, Arthur would freeze, put on his mask and stiffly claim he’d rather seize all conversation.  
He just had to be patient. Wait for the boy to come to trust him enough to open up to him.

Eames looked forward to that day. He savored the fantasies and smiled at the promises.

For now though, the man turned on his heels and quietly left the room, deciding to leave his pet alone and do some more paperwork… After all, Saito’s words had left a cold pit in his stomach, which he needed to pick apart and digest properly.


	24. Did You Really Think We Meant All of Those Syrupy Sentimental Things That We Said?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is all about COnfusi0nN?!  
> Yes. Mind-games ensue.
> 
> Also, thanks loads for leaving reviews! As I've said before, I truly appreciate them and they're one of the biggest motivations to have me write in my precious, rare, free time.

  
**Part Twenty-Three**   
_\- Did You Really Think We Meant All of Those Syrupy Sentimental Things That We Said? -_   


Arthur woke with a jump. His body had jolted awake, snapping him out of yet another nightmare. Though he couldn’t remember what the dream had been about, he was pretty certain it had been gruesome and not far off from the usual night-terrors that left him heaving for breath upon awakening.

He jumped once more when his eyes took notice of a figure sitting next to his pillow on the floor. Though the room was mainly dark, only light coming from the dusty light bulb above, Arthur could see the crossed legs clearly, one of the knees so close to the boy’s face that he would’ve smashed his nose against it were he to have jolted forwards -instead of backwards- because of the initial surprise.

The soft hushing that followed allowed Arthur to remember where he was and who was in the room with him and as he carefully lied back down, his eyes rolled up from the crossed legs to the broad chest and eventually Eames’ face.

There was no emotion on the Colonel’s face but calm and passiveness.

“You were having a nightmare.” The Brit matter-of-factly stated, as if Arthur had no clue why he’d just woken in a bath of his own sweat, heart pumping his blood so fast that the rush of it nearly deafened him.

It would have been an annoyingly bland and unnecessary remark if Arthur had not been busy and distracted with catching his breath and leering at the man towering over him.

As the American curled fingers into the blanket, pulling the fabric up to his chin, his eyes then rolled back down over Eames’ chest towards his legs which were still placed far too close to Arthur. The boy quietly sniffed the fabric in front of him.

“You smell like outside.” Arthur whispered awkwardly, his nose wrapping around the lovely scents of fresh air and awakening spring that lingered on the man‘s clothes. A sting of jealousy erupted in his chest.

“I just got back.” He explained and the silence that followed was uncomfortable. The boy nodded before digging his nose under the blanket and glancing up at the man through his lashes. Eames smiled shortly.

“I want to go outside.” Eames curled up his nose at that. In the dimly-lit room it would’ve gone by unnoticed, yet Arthur had been looking for it and he saw the displeasure on the Brit’s face at his request.

Of course.

Pets weren’t allowed outside, unless their services were be needed elsewhere, thus their replacement would be inclined. Still, Arthur could not remember in all his years living on the streets, to have seen a pet walk with a master out in public.

Pets, slaves, playthings… they were only needed at the homes of their oppressors. They served only few causes for those abusing them, and walking down the street, prancing and sharing the freedom of being outside (which was not to be taken for granted this day and age) was never one of them.

Then again, pets were not always to be identified by looks alone.  
They weren’t all young boys as Arthur himself. They came in all sizes, gender, color and age…  
But the fact that they were only to be used by those stronger than them, made sure they had no right to join their masters on trips, they had no right to go out, to be treated, let alone to be cared for and looked after.

These facts, told to Arthur by many boys and girls who’d escaped a fate of life-long serving of masters (simply because they’d been carelessly released or perhaps had even escaped), convinced the American that Eames wasn’t playing by the books… Not to mention, the rules.

The fact that Eames most certainly was going easy on Arthur, added a weakness to the man and his believability of being a notorious, sadistic Colonel. Then again, were he to be the genuine talented bluffer he claimed to be… there must be a tactic for Eames’ kind manners and soft hand.

It was this unlikely lack of abuse that confused the boy. It was the same presence of kind words and small smiles that made Arthur walk on eggshells every second of the day.   
It didn’t add up. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Arthur had prepared for years of prostitution and abuse when he’d fallen in the hands of the English military, and had come to peace that were he to ever have to swallow his pride… he’d simply take his own life…

But. All that hadn’t happened.  
Though it should’ve months ago.

“Now, now Arthur. Can’t do that now, can I?” Eames murmured after long seconds in which he seemed to have tried to read the boy’s expression in the dark. Whether he’d failed or not, Arthur didn’t know.

“Why?” Arthur asked immediately, his voice muffled behind the thick blanket.

Eames, instead of replying, just narrowed his eyes before focusing his gaze elsewhere. It was a tiny aspect that surprised Arthur… Eames avoiding eye contact as if- what? As if he felt guilty? Angry? Misplaced? As if he actually realized what the hell he was doing to another human being?

Or maybe just to come up with a lie…

The boy was clever for his age, even he himself knew this, and thus he clung to the obvious weakness in Eames’ demeanor. The Brit had to be one damn good poker-facing bluffer if he’d faked all of his weaknesses in the past months.

All the smiles, the rewards, the looking-after… Even the curiosity whenever they were together and Eames asked him little questions about his life, and then the respect that followed when Arthur told him he didn’t want to reply to said questions.  
And the absolute lack of physical abuse. Whereas Eames had grabbed him by the hair and shoved him around in the first weeks when Arthur had still had a very big mouth, there hadn’t been any aggressive hand laid upon him.

In contrary…

“I deserve to go out, don’t I?” Arthur began when Eames obviously wasn’t going to reply. The Brit blinked, or more so his eyelids fluttered, as he returned his gaze back onto his pet.

“I’m a human being. I need to go outside. I haven’t seen the sun nor smelled fresh air in over what… three months? You can’t just lock me up between four walls with the comfort of a pillow to sleep on and two meals a day…” Arthur spoke carefully, hiding the bigger emotions and trying to sound considerate. For all Eames’ misplaced understanding, he had a temper that very easily ignited.

When Eames didn’t reply, only eyed Arthur blankly, the boy continued.

“I- You told me you’d care for me. I’ve been obedient, Eames, and you promised care and protection in return. You also told me I could always tell you what I want and what I think and we’d discuss it together.” The boy made sure to put the emphasis on ‘together’ because he knew very well Eames had -to some degree- a very misplaced sense of infatuation with the thought of taking care of another human being which he called his pet.

It was the man’s weakness. Whether the Colonel was bluffing about said weakness didn’t matter. Because if he wanted to keep up the façade he ought to treat Arthur with care and respect and eventually this would convince him to allow Arthur outside if only the boy would press hard enough on the matter.

It could take a while.  
But now that Arthur had dug his teeth into the mission, he refused to let go anytime soon.  
Besides, it was about time Arthur joined in on the game of manipulation and deception. His sixteen years of age didn’t lack any sly skill, his youth added cocky confidence and it was a recipe for either success or disaster. The boy was willing to take the risk to find out.

Three years on the streets also had taught him that patience pays… pretty much every damn time, and thus he prepared himself for months -if not years- of mind games.

“This is not something to discuss about, Arthur. Pets aren’t allowed outside when they’re owned by someone. It’s as simple as that.” Eames frowned slightly, shifting a bit on the floor. When his hands came to rest on his thighs, squeezing softly, Arthur knew the man was keeping himself from fidgeting.

“Says who?” The kid asked, coming up to lean on one elbow, tracking Eames’ eyes which flickered to Arthur’s shoulder when the blanket slipped off it.

“Says everyone.” The man smiled stiffly along his curt reply before he moved to get up. Though Eames was clearly uncomfortable and started to end the discussion, Arthur refused to be shoved aside like that and before he knew it he’d slapped a hand on the man’s ankle… Fingers clenching in the fabric of his green pants.

Eames paused immediately, his brow furrowing as he looked back at his pet. Arthur glared at him through his lashes, his jaw stiff as he ignored the heath from Eames’ leg radiating through the thick fabric into the boy’s fingers and palm.

“Says you?” Arthur asked and a long pause followed.

In the minutes that lingered heavily after Arthur’s question, Eames seemed to go through a lot of emotions and possible reactions in his mind. Though he held the boy’s gaze, it was obvious that his eyes were glazed as his brain worked overdrive to come up with something that would probably benefit the man and as well satisfy the boy.

Lies. Most likely a lot of fucking lies.

“My say isn’t important in these things, Darling. Even bosses have bosses don’t they?” Arthur’s fingers relaxed on Eames’ ankle, though he didn’t move his hand away.

“Sneak me out then.” Eames scoffed at that and once again started to move. Arthur tightened his grip and the man stilled.

“Arthur, listen…” The man began, his voice calm yet thick, whilst his warm hand came to rest shortly on Arthur’s. The boy stirred, the hairs on his neck standing upright, and it was only with sheer willpower that he managed to keep down the startled sound from slipping his throat.

“Assume I were to take you out, yeah?” The boy nodded but grimaced when Eames started to gently peel his fingers loose from his ankle.

“Presume we wouldn’t get caught, hm?” Arthur ignored the odd warmth in his tummy at Eames’ whispered words, the promise of consideration and shared mischief heavily coated in the sentences.

“What tells me you wouldn’t try to escape?” Eames rose a brow at Arthur and his mouth smiled minutely when Arthur started to blush. How the man saw the flush on his cheeks in the dark, he didn’t know, but obviously the Brit was clever enough to know about the kid’s hopeful plotting.

“Trust?”

“Trust?” Eames repeated and Arthur nodded awkwardly.

“You told me that trust would be key for this… this relationship to work.”

“And you think I can trust you?”

“Yes.”

“You know Arthur. Trust has to be built on honesty, doesn’t it. And I’m fairly certain that your sugarcoated lies won’t be a solid base for mutual trust anytime soon.” The Brit smiled stiffly once more before peeling the last fingers from his ankle and pulling Arthur’s hand away from him by the wrist.

Why the boy felt so guilty to be caught on his obvious lies, wasn’t sure, but Arthur knew once more that Eames acted a lot more stupid than he actually was. The man was more sly than had been given credit for.

“Besides,” Eames began as he rose to his feet, only to bend over and pull the gray blanket back over Arthur’s pale shoulder. The boy couldn’t have helped wincing even if he’d tried to.

“Were you to try and escape, I’d be inclined to shoot you either in the leg or the head.” Arthur’s teeth grinded for a split second before he gingerly lied back down and pulled the blanket up to his nose.  
Eames towered over him, legs spread confidently, hands on hips nonchalantly.

“All the more reason I wouldn’t run, Sir.” The boy made sure to lay mocking emphasis on ‘sir’. He was angry, every wiry muscle in his teenage body tensed at the disappointment and punched pride.

“See, that’s what I’m not sure off, Arthur.” Eames smiled widely, his teeth bared in a starting grin and the flare in the boy’s tummy felt as if it’d burn him alive with adolescent rage.

“You’re all teenage pride and American stupidity. I’m absolutely sure you’d take your little feet and run the moment you’d get the chance to.”

As Eames turned to leave the room, Arthur frowned.

“What’s it to you, then?” The boy asked as Eames opened the bedroom door, hand resting on the light-switch.

“Why would you care for having to shoot me?”

The Colonel huffed a sigh at that but didn’t look over his shoulder at the boy.

“I’d shoot you in the head, Arthur. And if there’s something I don’t want right now, it’s to kill a child simply because my ego was hurt. Simply because I wouldn‘t stand the thought that I fail to be in control. ”

“That’s it then?” The boy spoke with any emotion hidden from his voice. Eames peeked over his shoulder with a frown.

“It’s about your ego? And control?”

“What else would it be about, pet?” Arthur sunk small teeth into his bottom lip as he noticed the contradiction.

Eames was lying more than was healthy for him. He started to tangle himself more and more in the web of deception.  
Where Eames said he cared about Arthur, he then said it was about his ego.  
Where he said Arthur had a say in things, he then did his own thing anyways.  
It didn’t make sense that he’d bluff his way through caring about his pet, but then chose to mention that he wouldn’t want to hurt the boy simply because he was a child, simply because he’d failed in his sickening mission of controlling another human being.

It hadn’t been about humility and kind humanity before, had it? It was about care and protection for his pet, right? His pet, his’, all his’. With all possessive, objectifying infatuation of a human being.

A stabbing pain in the boy’s head set the start of a head-ache marathon for the rest of the night and the boy closed his eyes even though Eames was still looking at him.

He was sick of this shit.  
Nothing made sense. Everything was a shitty contradictive, confusing paradox.

The bedroom door closed with a soft click after Eames had turned off the lights and it left the boy with less knowledge than before.  
Once again the situation had spiraled out of control. Where Arthur had had a solid grip on Eames only minutes ago, everything had turned liquid in his hands and slipped right through his fingers.

Eames was always a step ahead. Eames allowed Arthur to gain the upper hand from time to time.  
Eames was all false promises and feigned bright hopes.

All Arthur could do was groan and curl up into a tiny ball of misery.

Even when asleep he had no rest, because that night once more, his dreams were ruined by the presence of a cruel British Colonel and the lack of a mother’s warm embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS. Don't worry... I haven't forgot about the apple...


	25. For All I’ve Ever Said, Maladjusted, Never to Be Trusted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally getting somewhere.  
> This chapter contains dirty stuff! HOORAY
> 
> Thanks for all the reviews! Please keep 'em coming!

  
**Part Twenty-four**   
_\- For All I’ve Ever Said, Maladjusted, Never to Be Trusted -_   


The request had been perfectly reasonable, if not logical.

Arthur did have a right to see daylight, to go outside, stretch his legs and sniff the scent of floral spring.

So when Arthur had told Eames he wanted to go outside, part of him had known his request would be taken aboard. It was just for the sake of keeping up appearances, to keep the boy in hand and maintain being his master, that had urged Eames to play tough.

It wasn’t without risk, though. Were they to be caught together outside, Eames would have to find a bloody good excuse to tell Saito.   
Still, even though this could cost him his career -and potentially his head- Eames wanted to do this.

He wanted to take the boy outside of his cage, he wanted to have him walk by his side only in the hope to see those dull eyes lighten up and those lips curve into a smile.

In contrary to what he’d told Arthur, this was about far more than his ego and desire to be in control… But Eames wasn’t willing just yet to dig deep enough and pull out the truths and tells of what it was that made him want to be kind to this kid.

For now he stuck to his basic reasoning. Arthur was still a child. Arthur was a fellow human being. Arthur was innocent and pure.

With a huff Eames rolled onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes and taking a deep breath.  
The room was dark and quiet, except for the rhythmic in- and exhales coming from Arthur who was sound asleep on his pillow at the foot-end of Eames’ bed.

Eames had returned to his bedroom only two hours after having left. That it had taken Arthur nearly four months before finally asking to go out, had been a bit confusing. More so, Arthur had been cockily confident for a moment there and though it hadn’t taken much effort for Eames to push him back into submission… still the kid had tried and succeeded in those first moments. He’d taken the Brit by surprise.

The boy was obviously changing tactics. Trying different things, trying to read Eames and desperately wanting to beat him to the punch.

It wouldn’t work, though. A boy, over a decade younger than Eames, would not succeed in the mind games they were playing. Not a bloody chance.

Though Eames had been lying awake for quite some hours thanks to Arthur threading his mind, he couldn’t find it in himself to be upset at the boy.   
Not even when around seven in the morning, the Brit jolted back awake at the sounds of feet shuffling over the wooden floorboards.

He automatically slid his hand under his pillow, fingers wrapping around the handle of his Glock, as his eyes adjusted to the dark and observed the skinny figure threading around the room.

Eames smiled when Arthur stubbed his toe against the dresser, stumbling and cursing under his breath.   
A few minutes passed in which the boy dug some clothes from the bottom drawer (his drawer) and then soft padding feet carried him to the adjoined bathroom.

The Brit grimaced in a poor attempt to deny his own desire to grin, when Arthur flicked on the lights in the bathroom only to have the Colonel witness his pale, lean body. For some reason the boy rarely chose to wear underwear, especially when sleeping, and this now granted Eames the sight of pale, firm arsecheeks flexing with each step his long limbs took.

The door shut firmly behind him, locking Eames back in the dark and the man huffed once more.

After a couple of minutes the sound of running water traveled through the small gaps around the bathroom door and Eames sat up with a soft grunt, flicking on the bedside lamp.

Well, there was no chance he’d fall back asleep now. Besides, he had a lot of work to do once more, though he still was excited to check out the new weaponry -imported by their Russian partners- later this afternoon.

The Colonel rose from his bed with unexpected cat-like grace before he paced towards his coat which hung at the back of the door. With a secretive smile he took the apple out from one of its pockets and flipped it in the air before catching it with his other hand.

A pocketknife was retreated from one of his boots which stood to his left, toes under the dresser.   
Eames was oddly disappointed that Arthur had never managed to find said knife, even though he’d not-so-stealthily inspected the Brit’s boots more than once in the past couple of months.

As well was he not that chuffed about Arthur never seeming to notice when Eames was awake and carefully listening to the boy’s movements whilst feigning sleep. Granted, Eames had spent quite some time inspecting his own sounds and rhythm of breathing by taping it on one of his cherished tape-recorders, so many times so that he’d perfected every tiny aspect and detail of his sleeping pattern.

Yet… still.  
For some reason Eames expected more from Arthur. After all, as far as he knew, the boy had forged his own identity papers and thus wasn’t as daft as he seemed to be for someone who didn’t look close enough.  
Arthur also had a very proper-functioning survival instinct; if the stories of how he fought soldiers and kidnappers with busted balls for the attackers as a result were to be believed.

As the Colonel pocketed his knife in the back of the trousers he had woken up in, he strutted towards the bathroom door. Barefoot and bare-chested, a shiver rolled down the man’s spine, the underground layers taking much longer to heathen up at such an early hour and this early in spring.

Hiding the apple on the small night cabin at the left of the bathroom’s door, Eames then pushed the door open and peeked inside.

Why Eames had not knocked, he didn’t know. Why the door hadn’t been locked in the first place, was also something he’d later on question over and over again… either way, the ‘unfortunate’ series of carelessness did end up having Eames’ breath stutter to a halt… and his brain along with that.

The bathtub, which simultaneously served as the shower cubicle, lacked a shower curtain simply because Arthur was the only one actually preferring the spray of water rather than relaxing in the tub (such as Eames did). There’d never been a need for one… not that it was likely to find a mold-free sample somewhere in this day.

It was another unfortunate key to the series of unfortunate events leading to Eames’ momentarily brain-dead existence or lack therefore.

Because there he stood.  
Precious, beautiful Arthur, all awkward teenage limbs, smooth pale skin, a delicious pink flush on his chest, throat and cheekbones.  
Delightful Arthur stood, shoulders planted firmly against the tile wall behind him, giving Eames a complete view of the boy’s front, his head tipped backwards, mouth agape as he breathed heavily and occasionally sputtered because of the water pouring down on him.  
His pitch-black hair was glossy and soaked, soft strands flattened over his skull in a backwards stroke, baring a forehead charmed with wrinkles of intense focus.

Eames gulped and swallowed a huff when his eyes lowered over Arthur’s flat chest and narrow waist -momentarily doing a detour at the bent arm, hand on chest and fingers tweaking a bright-pink nipple- down towards what was causing the boy’s gritted teeth and furrowed brow.

“Yes.” Arthur whispered with eyes squeezed shut, the word barely breaking through the noise of the water splashing down over his body and into the porcelain tub.

It took another soft sound from the Yank before the Colonel finally remembered to breathe again and as he inhaled deeply, he straightened his body and tried to blink away from the long-fingered hand moving quick and slick over the boy’s erection.

Eames failed miserably and instead just continued to gape at the bony hips rolling as they tilted away from the wall and into the hand which squeezed hard enough to whiten the knuckles. He looked stunningly gorgeous but more so heart-achingly young and though Eames knew in the back of his head that he was watching an adolescent (basically a child) masturbate in his own bloody bathroom… he couldn’t help himself from watching either way.

And it wasn’t just his sight enjoying the visuals and not just his ears reveling in the tiny sounds that broke through the noise of water… but Eames could feel his loose trousers growing more tight by the second.

The Brit wasn’t stupid. He knew that he fancied Arthur’s gorgeous looks to some degree. Those almond-shaped eyes, the small curved nose, high cheekbones and Cupid-bow lips would not leave any man unaffected, not even a straight one.  
But up until now -except for the very awkward case of morning-wood in the past- Eames had not felt in the slightest hesitant and afraid of his own preferences.

Arthur was still a kid, after all.  
Still three years of puberty to go and a brain that had developed enough to survive on its own, yet young enough to put pride on the pedestal above common sense. Young enough to be as foolish to come to trust Eames, which obviously was starting to happen.

Then there also was the element of surprise of the boy überhaupt wanting to pleasure himself. Eames wasn’t sure if Arthur was a virgin, nor was he sure of what he’d been through sexually in the past couple of years… But he’s always had a stingy dread in the back of his mind, knowing and whispering that it could be possible that Arthur had been raped, exploited or at least sexually harassed in his years on the streets.

Though Arthur was in the bloom of adolescent hormones and sexual frustration, Eames had always presumed that the boy was asexual to some degree. The harsh conditions of the world in its waging war, made sure to either disgust you of intimacy or fuck up whatever it is that you liked about it in the first place.

Eames was a wonderful example of that, what with the current erection straining his trousers and aching more painfully than had ever happened before… And this all thanks to a sixteen-year old hostage wanking under a shower-spray.

As the Colonel squeezed himself through the thick fabric of his slacks, hissing at the dull throb, Arthur on his turn seemed to be close to release.

His hands, which would always be filthied by the blood of hundreds enemies which he’d killed, now wanted nothing more but to caress Arthur’s throat. Eames wanted to feel that Adam’s Apple bop in the curve between his thumb and index finger. Eames wanted to know how hard he could squeeze before Arthur would groan his name and shoot all over his own tummy.

Eames’ eyes, which had seen more misery and heinous happenings than one could fathom, now were soothed with the sight of the pale, leaning-towards-skinny body, curving and contorting in rhythmic motions riding towards orgasm.

He wanted nothing more at that exact moment than to see what would happen if he’d step into that shower with him. To watch those eyes flicker open and reveal blown pupils hazed with arousal. Eames wanted to see the boy’s face distort in pained pleasure as he’d grab his erection and tug him towards release himself. Hard and raw.

He wanted to smell him, wanted to sniff lewdly and ride the boy’s thigh getting off on friction and scent alone.

“Yes.” Arthur repeated softly, mimicking his projecting in Eames’ fantasy and the Brit had to squeeze himself harder to stop from moaning.

When the Colonel started to imagine dragging his tongue up the length of Arthur’s long throat, when he started to imagine licking into those parted lips and sinking teeth into Arthur’s plush lower-lip (which now trembled pitifully around a whine), when Eames’ mouth started to water at the thought of ravishing this boy’s innocence and possible virginity… he snapped out of it.

He pulled his hand away from his crotch, so fast it seemed he’d burned himself, straightened up and backed away from the disgustingly gorgeous scene taking place in his own damn bathroom. Eames closed the door and with the sight of Arthur gone, he finally could breathe again. Where he’d felt choked and claustrophobic only seconds ago, he now hungrily gasped the cool air around him, lungs expanding gratefully.

“Fuck.” The man whispered, resting his forehead against the door, face flanked by both his palms. His heart beat fast, the sound deafening him.

Though he’d been in self-denial of fancying Arthur to some degree, and though he’d ignored any sexual thought the moment it had wanted to appear… Eames wasn’t bloody daft to his own mind.  
Eames had been pretty much aware that what had drawn his attention the moment he’d seen the boy standing in line -worn white knickers hugging his bony hips and the nasty-looking split lip never too distracting from glaring eyes- had been an inappropriate emotion.

At some point Eames had told himself he felt like a father-figure towards the boy… But then, fathers weren’t likely to wake up in the middle of night with a raging boner and vague memories of naked-Arthur filled dreams.

So, Eames did know he liked the boy in ways he really wish he didn’t, and Eames knew that keeping in control of said needs and desires would be difficult if not tedious… But he’d hoped he’d grow out of it. The Brit had foolishly enough believed that a couple of months in, those perverted dreams and denied fantasies would subside.

In contrary, they’d only gotten worse and more prominent.

Yet, what had frightened him this time had been the vivid imagination and the strong desire to ravish the kid, the knowledge that he COULD ravish the boy anytime he’d desire to.   
He could do what he wanted with Arthur, and no one would care, no one would punish him.

It was the hesitation that he’d felt just now, the hesitance of stepping outside rather than towards the boy. The little voice in his head whispering to ‘do it’. To ‘take him, own what is yours, hurt and fuck him because you deserve it and Arthur has no say in it’… those were the things that were now freaking Eames out.

The Brit took a couple of deep breaths before glancing to his left and observing the apple. The apple which he bought with innocent intentions. The piece of fruit he’d taken for the boy’s pleasure, even though Saito had been right there with him… even though it had been a stupid thing to do… Eames still had taken this apple for his pet.

Eames did like his pet, after all.  
He was just very, very horny and Arthur just happened to be very, very much his type but simultaneously very, very young.

And Eames, besides horny, well… This war and this life hadn’t turned him asexual nor had it disgusted him for intimacy but it HAD fucked up his sexual desires nonetheless.

The Brit had to remind himself that the boy’s comfort and happiness were far more important than his own longing to wrap his hands around his pale neck and fuck him into oblivion.  
Because surely… Arthur had no desire for that. A teenager would never have a desire for that, right?

 


	26. Anything is Hard to Find When You Will Not Open Your Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jfc iunno what came over me but it's 2 am and i just finished writing this extra long chapter  
> bless snowysootsprites (merry-chases at tumblr) for motivating me and sticking with me and inspiring me... if it weren't for her this chapter would not be up!
> 
> anyways, i'm knackered so ignore my rambling and i hope my sleepiness did not corrupt my writing
> 
> enjoy!

  
**Part Twenty-six**   
_\- Anything is Hard to Find When You Will Not Open Your Eyes -_   


It took ten minutes of freezing cold water cascading down on him before Arthur finally gave up.

He’d been in the shower for far too long, had been ‘trying’ to get off for far too long and in the end he once again had to accept that it wouldn’t happen.

Arthur couldn’t come. Hadn’t been able to reach orgasm for the past months and had always had difficulties with it before that. It wasn’t that he had no sex-drive. After all he was a teenager, full of hormones and morning wood. Yet, living in a time where nothing could be taken for granted and every little pleasure was taken from you when you left it unattended, Arthur really couldn’t bother focusing on such tedious aspects as fantasies or physical needs.

This being said, when he ‘did’ focus on said needs, it would still be damn hard to fulfill them. But he would, he would succeed in the end from time to time… but ever since Eames had captured him, something was off (in a bad way).

As the boy turned the faucet, putting a stop to the now-cold water-spray, he realized he hadn’t jerked off more than perhaps five times during the months living with the Brit. And in those five times he of course had never gotten off.

The downside of those facts were that Arthur had been aroused far more often than the handful of times he’d wrapped his fingers around his erection (six, counting the shower-session just now) and whereas before his masturbation-drive had been vague memories of a teenage make-out session with a certain foster-kid named Margeaux, Arthur now more and more stopped himself from thinking of someone quite different.

It wasn’t that Arthur was shocked that somewhere during his adolescence he’d went from imagining the feel of Margeaux’s breasts in his clumsy hands to the memory of having his fingers fondle shyly an erection that wasn’t his own. After all, he’d jacked off Louis one time in the middle of the night, both their excuses being that it was cold, that they needed to warm up and especially needed to relax after having almost been caught stealing food from English soldiers earlier that day.

No, it wasn’t that. Arthur didn’t have a problem with his homosexual orientation.

It were the flashing images of a smirking Colonel, a dominant Englishman, a decade-older man who’d once grabbed him by the throat and then would tell him how he’d protect and take care of him. It were the vibrant pictures that burned his eyelids whenever he dared to touch himself, pictures of Eames standing too close, of Eames whispering the nastiest things into his ear, his hand wrapped around his throat and his bulk suffocating Arthur with his back against the wall.  
The image of his shoes, the same shoes Arthur had spent god-knows-how-long of a time with, French-kissing the inanimate objects with such desperation it still made him fluster to this day.

It was the determination of his subconscious, desperate and greedy to shove the mental betrayal down Arthur’s throat until he could feel his blood pulse through his cock, swelling and sparks of ‘nearly-there’ rolling down from his scalp to the tips of his toes.  
That’s when he’d grow nauseated, that’s the moment where the boy would pull his hand away and bite his tongue, flicker his eyes open and make sure to mentally insult himself so much that he’d nearly cringe at the self-loath.

He’d be fucking damned to have an orgasm with thoughts of Eames suffocating his mind. He downright refused to even believe that Eames was the cause of his arousal and that Eames would be the one who’d pull him over the edge into a tumble of undeserved pleasure.  
But Arthur knew… He wasn’t stupid, even his denial wasn’t in denial… and he knew pretty well what was going on.

Physical attraction to the asshole who’d basically ruined his life by kidnapping him from freedom and locking him into a comfortable little bird-cage.

He couldn’t have that, none of that.

Arthur breathed slowly, feeling his arousal subside once again, before stepping out of the bathtub and drying himself off. After having brushed his teeth Arthur dressed himself in a pair of black jeans which hugged him a bit too tight and he suspected -with much annoyance- that Eames had purposefully ordered Jean-Pierre to get some clothes a size too small. Choosing his clothes in the dark had been the cause for Arthur huffing as he pulled on his black shirt with a collar so wide and worn that it frayed at the seams and was determined to slip off the boy’s left shoulder every other second.  
Arthur gave up on pulling the fabric back over his bony, pale shoulder and instead optioned to roll up the sleeves to his elbows so they at least wouldn’t make him fumble at the fabric and thus betray his feigned cool exterior.

Arthur hated fidgeting, hated the subconscious tell of nervousness outing itself through fumbling with clothes and hair or through shifty eyes and tensing jaws.

As the boy exited the bathroom, a trail of steam and heath following him into the bedroom, the sleeves of his oversized shirt dropped from his elbows back down to his hands and as he met Eames’ gaze from across the room he couldn’t help curling his fingers around the frail fabric anyways.

He wasn’t fumbling. He wasn’t fidgeting, god damn it.

Arthur knew right away Eames wasn’t in a particularly good mood and though he didn’t seem angry, he was still glowering at his pet.

“What?” Arthur asked, feeling awkward being watched by a suspiciously quiet Eames.

The Brit didn’t reply, instead he waited for another couple of seconds before unfolding his arms and pushing off the wall he’d been leaning against. As he treaded towards Arthur, the toothpick between his lips rolled from one corner to the other and the boy fixated his gaze on the movement because it was easier to comprehend than the intense stare and rolling shoulders.

Arthur tensed when Eames neared him, but the Colonel just passed him by, flicking off the light in the bathroom and then turning around to the door across of Arthur, leading into the hallway.

He was highly aware of the man’s bulk, his scent, the shift in the air when he strutted past him. There was a tension oozing from his master and Arthur’s nerves immediately perked at possible confrontation.

The awkward silence made that Arthur didn’t really know what to do. He wasn’t sure whether he should bark at the man or just keep quiet, Eames was once again unreadable but simultaneously very obvious in his annoyance. He allowed Arthur to read a hint, but not nearly enough so he’d know how to adjust to Eames’ current mood.

Asshole.

At the door, Eames paused with a hand on the knob. He looked over his shoulder, the fabric of his white shirt pleading and creasing underneath suspenders and contorted muscles.

“Come!” The Brit commanded. The word was spoken in a high pitch similar to when one would call for their dog whilst slapping on their thigh to beckon it over.

Arthur sucked in a breath as he felt anger flare at the rudeness and indifference from his master. But the boy had decided to be good today, even if Eames ruined his sessions of self-pleasure, there was no doubt he should start obeying more often and have this man go easy on him.  
Especially after his moody glares and one-worded demands.

“Are we going out?” Arthur asked, raising one eyebrow and walking towards Eames who waited for him at the door.  
He didn’t reply.

“Do I need to put on some shoes?” He then asked, glancing down at his bare feet padding over wooden floorboards until they came to a halt next to Eames’ Oxfords. It weren’t the ones he’d made out with (thank goodness) but nonetheless they were a lovely pair; black and shiny.

“I mean, whe-” Arthur’s words (which had been rambled because of his nervousness and the inability to read Eames’ mood) were cut off short because Eames placed a hand on the boy’s chest before shoving him against the doorpost.

He held his breath (after it had been knocked out) whilst Eames leaned towards him. His eyes were glistening dangerously, pupils blown, but the finger which he hovered in front of Arthur’s face did not tremble at all.

“You will not speak today.” Eames said with a calm voice. The volume wasn’t whispered but low enough that Arthur had to pay attention to hear them over the sound of his panicky heartbeat. The lack of shouting and anger made Eames all the more scarier and Arthur swallowed thickly.

Was this a session? A punishment? The American tried to recall what he could possibly be punished for, but if that were the case, Eames would share the reason soon enough… Those were the rules.

It wasn’t until after another couple of seconds that Arthur understood why Eames didn’t speak nor pull back away. The boy nodded sharply, his fingers curling around the wood of the doorpost behind him.   
Eames’ eyes wavered over the boy’s nose and lips before he finally straightened back up and left the room.

Arthur followed obediently.   
Too suspicious, too upset and too damn afraid to rebel.

* * *

 

“Sit.” Eames demanded once they were in the small dining room. The Colonel was still busy closing the door behind him and flicking on the light, not bothering to look if Arthur was obeying his command.

Still completely unaware of what the hell Eames’ problem was, Arthur gingerly pulled back a chair and moved to sit down.  
That was until the clack of a tongue interrupted him mid-motion.

The boy looked over his shoulder towards Eames who on his turn casually held his toothpick as his lips were slightly parted and his eyebrows risen. His expression condescending and awaiting.

It took only a second for Arthur to get with the program and he ignored the fluttering in his stomach as he slid the chair back underneath the table and instead lowered himself smoothly on his knees onto the floor.

Something flickered over the man’s face, yet it passed too quickly for Arthur to figure out whether it had been surprise or satisfaction. It didn’t matter anyways because Eames pointed to the floor and Arthur dipped his head and lowered his gaze, his fingers squeezing into the fabric of his jeans.

The better he’d behave, the sooner this would be over. The heavy sensation in Arthur’s stomach used to belong to anger and disgust but lately the contents had changed… slowly but surely.  
Arthur bravely ignored, denied the pleasurable hum in his chest and the fluttering delight in his tummy and instead chanted that this was not okay and that he did not enjoy Eames’ dominance.  
He did not enjoy this.  
He did not enjoy this.  
This did not turn him on.  
Eames did NOT turn him on.

The mental chant ended abruptly when Eames casually threw a leg over Arthur rather than walk around him. But Arthur did not look up. Arthur did not misbehave and Arthur did make up excuses that he wanted this to go along smoothly so it would be over that much sooner.  
Arthur did not enjoy this.

He heard Eames take a seat behind him at the table and the sound of cutlery followed. Arthur could smell the breakfast. The citrus, the toast, even egg? Eames’ breakfasts were always outrageous and Arthur often wondered where he got the decadent foods such as omelets and cheeses whereas all the kid had seen in the past three years had been bread and canned beans.

“Arthur, come.” Eames called, his voice as indifferent as it had been before and the boy gingerly peeked over his shoulder. The Colonel was eating calmly, reading a creased newspaper and not paying any attention to Arthur, again assuming the kid would obey.

Something in Arthur’s chest twitched and pulled and he held his breath as he crawled over on hands and knees. He was ninety-nine percent sure that Eames didn’t want him to get up from the floor and the soft ‘good boy’ that fell from the man’s lips, confirmed the Arthur’s assumptions.

Without taking his eyes off the newspaper, Eames left his fork on his plate and dangled his hand next to his thigh, fingers wiggling. And Arthur tried, he really did try, to be upset and disgusted and angry… but still he ended up dipping his head until Eames’ fingers could stroke through his thick, damp hair.

Whether it had been intentional or not, Eames didn’t stop petting Arthur’s head, didn’t stop stroking the shell of his ear, didn’t stop gently massaging the back of his neck, until the American’s breathing had slowed down along with his heartbeat and his back dipped along with his head in a sign of not only relaxation but as well surrender.

Arthur’s mind was hazed, as if it was tumbling into a blank static, a craved-for emptiness.

“There you go.” Eames whispered at the sensation of Arthur’s body growing pliant and meek. The man’s hand stroked over the nape of Arthur’s neck down the slope of his bared shoulder. He squeezed gently before retreating and the boy huffed slightly at the lack of heath and the tingling Eames’ fingers had left on his skin.

“I want you to sit under the table, between my legs with your hands on my feet.” Arthur’s breath stuttered and a warning bell went off in the back of his head, but still he groggily crawled underneath the table and maneuvered in the confined space until he sat in the way Eames had commanded him to.

His thumbs absently brushed over the smooth leather of the man’s shoes and he matched his breathing to the slow strokes.

He was okay. This was okay. He was just doing this to get it over with. He was doing this so Eames would come to trust him enough and allow him outside and then he’d escape. He’d kick him in the balls and then knee him in the face when he’d double over and then Arthur would run, run, run to his freedom.

That’s why he did this.  
That’s why his tummy tickled and his cheeks felt warm and his brain was fuzzy.

The sound of cutlery scraping over the china plate once more sounded above the boy’s head and Arthur waited patiently for Eames’ next command or move.

“Do you want breakfast?” The Brit asked after long minutes of silence. Arthur inhaled before he remembered he wasn’t allowed to speak and he couldn’t help but clench his jaws at Eames’ trick-question.

“Clever boy.” Eames praised after a couple of seconds before he continued, his shoe tapping distractedly but Arthur’s fingers just wrapped around it more firmly, enjoying the sway and tilt.

“If you want something you have to let me know. You’re not allowed to speak but I have faith in your inventive mind and cheeky determination.” Eames’ voice was calm. For all the intense glaring and shoving against doorposts earlier that morning, he sounded truly calm and put-together. Relaxed even?

Arthur did want breakfast. Having been blessed with a full tummy for the past four months had made his willpower weak when it came to stubbornly refusing food when offered. So he did consider now what it was he could do to let Eames know he wanted to eat. Whereas in the beginning he would’ve rather starved to death than play along with the Colonel’s games.

Eames damn well knew what Arthur wanted.  
It was just a matter of pleasing his dominance enough so he’d give Arthur what he desired.

It took about five minutes before Arthur gingerly rested his face against Eames’ knee. He could feel the man stir and he firmly blocked away any thoughts and just followed instincts. The adolescent rubbed his cheek against his knee, tightening the grip on Eames’ feet in both hands

Of course the man wasn’t that easily persuaded and Arthur proceeded to rub his jaw line against the man’s leg, similar to how a cat would leave a trail of its scent, marking territory. It wasn’t until the boy gently gnawed on Eames’ knee and the fabric of his slacks that the man finally did react.

“What do you want, Pet?” Arthur huffed and nudged his head against the limb next to him, squeezing the arches of Eames’ feet. A spark of frustration tried to reach his hazy brain, but it suffocated in the sea of Eames’ scent and the warm, confined safety of being seated in between the man’s strong legs, underneath the table.

“Do you want me to pet you, hm?” Eames asked, his voice lilting playfully as he rested his hand on his thigh, palm up. Arthur huffed softly before nudging the relaxed fingers with his nose.   
After minutes of nudging and stroking his own face against an uncooperative hand, Arthur’s stomach flip-flopped at the realization that Eames was playing dumb and would continue to until Arthur would do just what he wanted.

The boy knew what he wanted.  
How else could he ask for food without words than to nibble on the man’s fingers? That’s what he was aiming for. It wasn’t the fact that Eames was a pervert after all, that upset Arthur, but more so it was how he enjoyed the thought of making out with the Brit’s fingers.

Granted, Arthur had lost some of his bite, some of his stubborn pride and American ways in the past couple of months. He’d shed some wild hairs and though the realization should be unsettling… it was more so grounding, really.

Arthur started to accept the ways of this English man. The boy started to accept that the better he’d behave, the more benefits he’d pull out from this and with the goal of ‘going outside’ appetizing his hunger for freedom, well… it was rather easy to shove his anger aside.

It shouldn’t be this easy though.  
But… it was and Arthur rolled with it.

The power he felt when the little nibble on Eames’ pinky-finger made the Brit inhale sharply, was a very welcoming aspect to his plotting and it made the mission all the easier to know that he did have some effect on this man… He didn’t believe it was faked, not a single man should be that good at reading another’s mind and knowing exactly how to play one’s confidence.

And so Arthur bit again, nipping at each fingertip, his tummy growing warm at the man’s silence and stiff posture.   
After the boy had gnawed each inch of the man’s palm, Eames shushed him quietly before hooking his thumb behind the bottom-row of Arthur’s teeth.

The boy was taken by surprise but he once more remembered that Eames wanted obedience and thus he seized all movement and initiative, instead optioning to tilt his head a bit back and leaving his mouth agape.

The Colonel’s index finger curled itself underneath Arthur’s chin, allowing him to rest his head but as well granting himself a more firm grip on the kid’s jaw. Arthur could taste toast and tobacco when Eames started to slide his thumb from left to right -and back- over the kid’s sharp teeth.

“Very good.” The man whispered more to himself than to Arthur before inserting his thumb deeper and pressing down on the boy’s tongue. Arthur’s nostrils flared for a moment and he blinked rapidly. He didn’t know what the man was planning but he made sure to keep calm and go with it, trusting Eames as much as possible (a thought that would make him cringe later that day when recalling it in less-aroused state).

Yet his body was tense, his jaws trembling and ready to bite down were the man to try something shady.

“You want breakfast, then?” He asked and Arthur nodded, gaze dropping on the man’s crotch in front of him. He told himself he was imagining the size of the bulge being larger than should be acceptable at innocent breakfast. Arthur nodded once again, tongue trembling against the man’s rough finger pad.

“Tell me. Let me hear you want food.” Arthur took a shivering breath and closed his eyes. He wasn’t happy with how hot he felt, wasn’t happy with the heavy gloat in his tummy, nor with the flush on his cheeks and throat, or the trembling fingertips massaging little circles in the leather of Eames’ Oxfords.

Arthur was not at all happy with how his voice mewled around the man’s finger, the sound high and quiet, a meek cry. A submissive craving, an animalistic begging to be fed, to be given what he wanted or more so… to be granted what he deserved because he’d been a very good boy.

All pride and anger aside, Arthur was being a very good boy and Eames -cruel heart and cruel good looks- rewarded him generously.

Eames shifted a bit in his seat, as if the sound had made him uncomfortable, before he pulled back his hand only to return it back under the table after a few seconds, holding a bright red apple.

Arthur’s mind came to a halt immediately.

Eames scooted back his chair, though he remained seated and Arthur followed awkwardly (crawling from under the table) because he hadn’t been told to remove his hands from his shoes just yet.

But the boy’s gaze was fixed on the apple. It was the boy’s favorite fruit, favorite food, scent, anything.  
It brought back wonderfully-painful memories of his childhood back when the war had been just a disgruntle on television and side-news on the radio.

He inhaled and could already smell the familiar scent of when his mother would bake American apple-pie. Whenever she did, there was a wonderful day bound ahead to follow. The scent of apple and cinnamon in the morning or evening or night only meant one thing; his father’s return.

Whenever his father would return from his missions in the army, no matter time or date, his mother would bake a celebratory apple-pie. The whole house would smell off it. Arthur recalled multiple memories of coming home after school (back when school had been safe enough and cheap enough for common citizens), or waking up at two in the morning with his mouth salivating at the warm smell of cinnamon and dough.

But then there had been the apple-pie that had lost its warmth, through lying on the counter for hours to no end, and even its scent got lost in the night as his father did not return home. And he recalled how he’d sat at the table with his mom, the only sound coming from a nearby clock ticking away farther and farther from their hope and the likeability of his father’s survival.

The food that once had been about celebration, family, love, comfort and protection had been tossed into a trashcan uncerimonionally by his mother, her make-up smudged with tears and her heart aching so much over the loss of her husband that she hadn’t cared about Arthur’s confusion and had just sent him to bed without a slice of pie or his father’s embrace.

So apples… were truly one of the best and one of the worst things to Arthur and at this exact moment he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry.

The kid looked up, having followed Eames enough so he now wasn’t seated anymore under the table but still in front of the man’s shins with his hands on his shoes.

“I remember you told me you love apples.” Eames began, his gaze finally settling on the boy and Arthur didn’t look down because Eames hadn’t told him to.

“And I recall the painful cringe you tried to mask but failed to.” He rolled the apple in his hand before holding it in front of the boy’s face between thumb and middle-finger. Arthur inhaled the scent of the fruit but didn’t lower his gaze from his master.

“Though I’m sad to see there’s some grief attached to your memory of this fruit, I’m also very certain that there’s more adoration for it and thus I want to reward you with this because it is something that means a lot to you.” Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath and calming his mind which back-flipped off a cliff because it just couldn’t comprehend the underlying truth of Eames’ words or the hidden honesty behind his gray eyes.

“Do you want the apple, Arthur?” The Colonel asked, leaning forward to rest both elbows on his knees, his legs spread wide and feet pointing outwards. Arthur clung onto his shoes as if he was afraid he’d get up and leave.

Which he wasn’t., of course.

The boy nodded and straightened his back, awkwardly watching how Eames moved the apple closer to his mouth.

It was obvious everything changed the moment Arthur took a large bite from the apple, his eyes locked onto Eames’, his fingernails digging into the leather of his Oxfords.  
It was obvious that it was about more than the piece of fruit and both of them knew this. The apple was a symbol of Arthur’s past now in the hands of the Colonel who unavoidably was his future.  
It was about a piece of his past being taken, turned, renewed by Eames and Arthur accepting it fully.

And though the boy’s memories of his deceased mother and father relived themselves vibrantly in his grieving mind, he still closed his eyes and he still trusted Eames to feed him his future with a past unforgotten but accepted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it went to sexy and i dont know why


	27. I Will Die With Both of My Hands Untied

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what happened but I got in a writing mood and then finished this chapter and I wasn't supposed to upload it this early but people on tumblr threatened me so yeah here it is.
> 
> For some reason I went rather deep and I hope it's realistic for the story's pace.  
> So fingers crossed you guys like it!
> 
> Please leave plenty of reviews for extra motivation and extra/early updates.

  
**Part Twenty-seven**   
_\- I Will Die With Both of My Hands Untied -_   


_May, 2051. (1 month later)_

Eames had made up his mind.

Tonight he was going to do what he had been wanting to do for quite some time now, but had been afraid of before.  
Besides, he couldn’t sleep anyways and thus as he sat up to lean on his elbows, he then flicked on the night lamp to his right. Tonight would be ideal for what he desired to do with Arthur.  
He’d been planning ahead for weeks, had made sure everything would be right this night, that there were no risks for the kid nor himself.

As if he could magically hear Eames’ thoughts, Arthur murmured in his sleep and shifted. The boy’s elbow dug into the heel of the Brit’s foot but other than that he remained in a semi-peaceful slumber.  
The Colonel didn’t mind that Arthur had somehow decided to move from his pillow to Eames’ feet on the mattress. They didn’t mention it, though it had started exactly twenty-seven days ago and had since then occurred every night Eames would sleep in his room. Though whenever he came home well after the boy’s bedtime, Arthur would be sleeping on his pillow, the bed left untouched.

Eames tried to not think too much of it, thought this was impossible because of how bloody well-behaved Arthur had been lately. Sometime after Eames had fed the Yank ’the’ apple, Arthur’s ways had changed direction and his only misstep had been a couple of weeks ago when Eames had demanded of him to get his hair cut shorter.   
The outburst of anger that had followed on the boy’s part had been about much more than just the haircut and it was a reality-check for Eames as it had reminded him that Arthur was NOT perfectly happy with the current life they were living together.

Either way, he was doing much better, they both were.

“Arthur.” Eames murmured, his voice thick with sleep, as he wiggled his toes against the curve of the boy’s upper arm.

“Bugger off.” The boy mumbled sleepily and Eames couldn’t stop the wide grin from appearing on his face, a warmth settling in his tummy as Arthur had sounded beautifully English, a contrast to his normally American ‘fuck offs’.

“Rude.” The man huffed before swaying the blanket off himself and getting up.

“Did you make me some fags, Arthur?” Eames asked as he stretched his body, groaning and bones popping.

“Yeah, dresser.” The boy replied, his voice muffled because he’d dragged the blanket over himself completely until all Eames could see was a little ball underneath the duvet.  
The Colonel nodded and found some carefully rolled cigarettes on the wooden furniture to his left.   
Making Eames’ fags was an exercise of discipline, and though in the beginning the kid had pouted at the smelly tobacco, he now never forgot to roll Eames’ five daily fags every evening before going to sleep.

Little things as such sent a thrill of satisfaction up the Brit’s spine and though Arthur would grumble about the little tasks at hand, he still performed them without flaw in the end.

“Go take a shower and get dressed warmly.” Eames spoke around the fag between his lips before lighting it with his Zippo which he’d found lying neatly next to the little, white sticks (even though Eames was positive he’d left the lighter in the pocket of his coat the day before). The boy’s attention for detail was promising if not pleasurable.

“What time is it?” Arthur asked instead, his head popping from underneath the blanket, his eyes puffy and his nose thick with sleep. Pitch black hair stood in all directions, cowlicks and knots even with its short length.

“Three-ish.”

“A.M.?”

“Yes… A.M.” Eames mock-repeated before leaning against the dresser so he could look out over his bed and the rest of his room.

“Why the hell are we getting up at three in the morning?” He asked with an annoyed lilt to his voice, though he was already moving to get up… Obedient with a little touch of brattiness. Eames could live with that and instead of replying he just remained quiet until the boy understood he wouldn’t get an answer.

Eames watched, slipping his Zippo into the pocket of his slacks and hugging an arm around his bare waist, as Arthur shamelessly got up from the bed and made way to the bathroom. For someone who hated Eames, he sure didn’t feel a need to be dressed in front of him.

Arthur turned to look over his shoulder before closing the bathroom door and Eames ignored the long, lean curve of his pale back, didn’t even notice his naked arse and instead focused his gaze solely on the boy’s face.

“Are we going out?” His eyebrows rose hopefully and Eames felt giddy to see the boy’s expressions so clearly now that he’d gotten rid of his fringe. Arthur, even with his young age, had a lovely set of forehead wrinkles and the most expressive eyebrows Eames had come across so far.  
He’d age handsomely, he could already tell.

“Hurry up, Pet.” The Brit said instead and bit his lip -holding back a smile- when he could see the flash of a dimply in Arthur’s left cheek.

“Yeah, okay.” He whispered more to himself than to Eames before turning back around and closing the door behind him as he entered the bathroom.

Eames went to bathe, shave and dress himself in his extra bathroom which was located close to his office but barely used. Though he dressed in uniform (an aspect that would often prevent people from getting stupid thoughts in their heads such as sneaking up on him or picking a fight), he still made sure to carry two guns and a knife with him.   
The Glock was well-hidden as he tugged it behind his belt on his back. The Smith & Wesson got a secure spot at his side, fit in the leather holster which strapped snugly around his shoulders and chest, hidden underneath his green, double-breasted coat.

One of his favorite knifes found its place in his right boot, the pressure of the handle against his ankle soothing his paranoia only so much.  
Eames did option to leave the visor-hat aside, he’d rather not draw too much attention to himself when roaming London’s streets in the middle of the night with his pet alongside him. If they did confront him about it though, he still had the uniform to scare some away.

After stroking a hand over his waxed-down and side-combed hair for the fifth time, he finally left the room and went back to his bedroom.  
When Eames returned, busy pulling on his black, leather gloves, Arthur was waiting for him on his pillow.

“You need to wear another sweater.” Eames murmured, eyeing the pale boy wearing only jeans, shoes, shirt and thinning sweater.

“It’s summer.”

“It’s also nearly four in the morning. Nights outside are cold, Arthur.” The boy huffed at that and Eames knew what he was going to say before he did.

“How could I know?” Eames didn’t accept the invitation to bicker and instead when to his closet, rumbling through the shelves at the top. After another second he tossed one of his own thick sweaters over his shoulder towards the bed. A knitted black scarf followed.

“Put those on.” Arthur got up to his feet and proceeded to pull the large black sweater over the green one he was wearing, before wrapping the scarf around his neck and burying his nose in it. Eames was sure he imagined how the Yank sniffed the fabric when fluffing it up to his face with his hands.

“Wait here.” The Brit commanded, pointing at the bed and Arthur gingerly sat down at the edge, his fingers fumbling with the too-long sleeves.  
Eames then walked to the door and peeked outside, tapping one of his guards on the shoulder.

“Oui, Monsieur?” The blond-hair-blue-eyed young man asked. His lips were curled in a permanent little pout and if Eames hadn’t been so sexually constipated (except for the perverted infatuation with his pet) he’d have chat the man up ages ago.

His skill wasn’t so much coming up with lies but more so was being believable with whatever lie he told. Thus as Eames whispered to both of the guards that he’d heard movement somewhere in the hallways that lied behind his dining-room, the men didn’t even so much as think to second-guess.

Eames was the Colonel, after all.  
Only manipulative, suspicious and paranoid dictators would ever doubt his words… Thus, Saito.

Both soldiers went to investigate, promising that one of them would return within five minutes to give Eames an update and to grant the man to leave on whatever-mission he was on, and guard Arthur for the rest of the night.

Eames acted fast, going back inside and dragging the boy out the room and through the hallways. Arthur cursed but hushed his voice when Eames squeezed his arm and whispered for him to be quiet. He then pushed the kid into his office, knowing that this had been the first room on the soldiers’ path to investigate and by now had been moved on from. Eames told him to ‘stay’ with a firm look in his eyes before leaving once more.

He locked the door, ignoring the confused look on the boy’s face before jogging back to his own bedroom.   
Mister-pouty-lips was already waiting at the door, his back straightening when seeing Eames and his cheeks flushing when the Brit threw him a grin.

“A rat.” Eames huffed, effortlessly chuckling feigned relief and clasping the young man’s shoulder. After the soldier frowned, the Colonel repeated in French and told him how the sound had been created by a rat in one of the pipes.

Mister-blue-eyes laughed nervously and he nearly choked when Eames wrapped an arm around his waist and told him what a lovely job he’d done anyways. The flirting would make sure to not have pouty-lips have any suspicions to share with Saito and Eames left the breathless Frenchman when he saw the other soldier return.

The other man, who as well spoke French but was from Belgium, immediately told Eames he’d seen a large rat crawl around in the back and then explained this was probably the cause of the sounds the Colonel had heard.  
Eames had always been a lucky man and he hid the true size of his amusement and grin when realizing a rodent had made his night that much easier.

He thanked both men, not granting Mr. pouty-mouth another glance and made his way down the hallway, turning a corner to his right which led outside but also to his office.

Arthur, bless him, was still standing awkwardly next to his desk right on the spot where he’d put him before leaving.

“You could’ve taken a seat, you know.” Eames joked before locking the door behind him and making way to one of the bookshelves.

“You told me to stay.” Arthur murmured, looking over his shoulder as Eames pulled a few books away.

“I meant in the room, not on the bloody floorboard.” His hand was trembling slightly when he slid it behind one of the wooden borders of the shelve. Eames didn’t know why exactly, he wasn’t nervous persé… just apprehensive. Either way he paid no attention to his bodily reaction and instead kept searching, tapping fingers around.

“Well, excuse me for wanting some specificity.” Eames stirred and peered over his shoulder at Arthur who -though he’d turned around- still stood on the same floorboard, glaring.

“Speci-what?” He asked with a smirk and Arthur just flushed in anger. The boy was beautiful when annoyed, ‘t was an unlucky trait to possess when in the Brit’s presence. Arthur just clacked his jaws shut, the sound of teeth hitting teeth loud in the quiet room.

“There we go.” Eames murmured partially at Arthur but as well because he’d found the switch he’d been looking for and he then flipped it.

“Come.” He waved a hand over whilst pulling the bookcase away from the wall, his actions slow and careful as to not make too much noise. Arthur hesitantly walked towards him and as Eames stepped aside to reveal a small, dark passage in the wall, the boy then looked up confused.

“Go in there and keep walking until you reach the dead end, then wait for me and do not make a sound.” Eames explained slowly before fetching a small flashlight from his breast pocket.

“You have a flashlight?” Arthur asked, making Eames smile because the question was not at all related to the context of being demanded to crawl into a dark, underground hole.

“I’m the Colonel of England’s Military. Of course I have a flashlight.” He handed over the small device and circled his hand towards the tunnel in the wall.

“Is this how I’m going to die?” The tone was meant to sound joking, but the paleness of the boy’s cheeks and the wideness of his brown eyes notified Eames that Arthur was far more nervous and scared than he wanted to show.

“No, none of that, Darling.” Eames smiled, folding his hands into fists so he wouldn’t pet the boy’s face in reassurance.

“Pets aren’t allowed out thus we can’t just strut out through the regular exit which is guarded by multiple soldiers and men of Lord Saito.” His eyes traveled quickly over the boy’s face, but Arthur stood stiffly and his jaws clenched in stubborn blankness.

“And since I can’t trust early surprise visits from Lord Saito, I’ll have to let my soldiers know I’m going out as to not risk being caught on the lie of staying in when in all honesty I’m out with you.” He waited patiently for Arthur to relax a bit and when his shoulders sagged slightly, the man smiled.

“There we are. No worries, aside from some spiders and rats there is no one that knows about this tunnel’s existence. It’s also impossible to get into from outside as I have the only key and -as far as I’m aware- am also the only one knowing about the exit’s whereabouts.” Arthur seemed to consider Eames’ words before he nodded and looked down at the flashlight in his hands, clicking it on.  
The light was weak, but it would be enough in the darkness of the tunnel which took about ten minutes to get through.

“Good boy, I’ll see you in half an hour.” Arthur nodded, his eyes big and lips thinned. Eames ignored the twitch in his chest and the heaviness in his stomach. Instead of succumbing to his worry and pity, he instead helped Arthur into the wall’s hole before sliding the bookcase back and locking the hidden switch back into place.

* * *

 

When he made way through the hallways, his strides long and steps heavy, Eames felt an anger choking him.  
Eames was angry at the current world and its sick ways. The bloody slavery, the human pets, the sex-slaves, everything. It was all so accepted, all so current, ‘normal’ and painfully real.

He despised to betray his own leader for the sake of making a boy happy. A boy who should be nothing more than a thing to play with but suddenly had become a tad more important than Lord Saito… And that was saying something.

The English lived for their leader and for the new age they were now fighting for. But the blindness was seeping from Eames’ eyes, showing him day by day the inferno of corruption, of cruelty and absolute hypocrisy.

And what was he to do?  
As the Colonel he was one of the most powerful men in England. But with power came immense responsibility and with responsibility came plenty of obligations.

It was his heart that desired to rebel against the ways of war. And it was his heart which had been dragging his mind into the gutter for the past five months.  
Though Arthur should be seen as an object, as a filthy American only deserving to be abused and cast aside… Eames saw anything but that.

Knowing that what he was experiencing was inappropriate if not forbidden for his position, he wasn’t afraid of anyone. He wasn’t afraid Lord Saito would shoot his brains out were he to ever find out the privileges he’d granted a mere Yank. He wasn’t scared to lose his medals, to become a sleazy citizen rather than the feared Colonel of England’s military.

Eames wasn’t afraid to fall from his pedestal because standing by the flag had already made him bow his head in shame for what had become of the English.

No.

England’s Colonel feared so much that his heart wrenched itself, was afraid so much it made him dizzy… He feared nothing but for Arthur’s happiness to not bloom.   
An Englishman feared the safety and protection of the American enemy.

But Arthur was just a kid.  
Such a beautiful young boy, desperate to grow up and outlive the war into a world that would grant him the happiness men once had known decades ago.

Eames wanted to guide Arthur through these battlefields, he wanted to hold his hand and help him step over the corpses of this sickening present.  
Because though the boy’s past had been charming at one point, Eames knew that it took only a glance at the present to ruin every blessed memory you owned. And Eames knew Arthur wasn’t a happy boy, also knew the boy had been happy ages ago but could never live off of those half-forgotten memories.

And thus, with the likeability to be slaughtered well before his forties, Eames’ mission was to grant this boy a future as bright as the past had once been.  
Where Arthur was captured in Eames’ cage, the Brit himself had been a hostage and slave to his own country for decades. Patches on his eyes and collar to reel him in had been all he’d known until Arthur had made his heart pump so hard that it had dragged Eames’ mind into eye-opening truths.

He’d betray his leader, his army… He’d betray his country for the sake of one life to be enlightened by his own hands. Arthur would see better days and Eames would die with both of his hands untied.


	28. It’s so Easy For Us to Sit Together But it’s so Hard For Our Hearts to Combine

  
**Part Twenty-Eight**   
_\- It’s so Easy For Us to Sit Together But it’s so Hard For Our Hearts to Combine -_   


It took Eames less than thirty minutes to arrive.

Arthur had never been claustrophobic, yet sitting in a dark, silent tunnel for said amount of time, had made his nerves cringe and his tummy knot.  
That was without the added fluttering in his chest at the thought that he’d be outside very soon.

The kid brushed his hand against the wooden lid above him and not only could he feel the chilly air seep through the cracks, but as well could he smell dirt, grass and dew.

Arthur, as demanded, remained quiet when he heard the shuffling feet somewhere above him, until Eames called out to him.

“Arthur?” He whispered, his voice muffled through the thick wood and the rustling of leaves he could hear in the distance.

“Yes.”

“Good boy, step back from the door, yeah?” Arthur did as he was told and took a few steps away from the portal, the flashlight shining weakly in front of him.

Arthur would recall the moment when Eames tugged open the door, for many years to come. The simple cocktail of scents, sounds and sights drowned Arthur in a wave of nostalgia and the boy would’ve sobbed were he to been able to shed tears in the first place.

Eames peeked inside, his head almost comically appearing upside down… Arthur could’ve bashed his brains out with a rock. The thought that Eames trusted Arthur enough to not believe he’d ambush him, was a bit unsettling.

“Come on then.” The Brit whispered, leaning back up and instead reaching his hand towards him. Arthur hesitated, a sudden anxiety punching him in the stomach.

He was about to go outside.

Away from the restricting yet safe haven that was Eames’ home. Out, in the elements of nature, different sights and smells for the first time in nearly half a year.  
Arthur had dreamed about this day, even if he’d never escape, he still had prayed to a god he did not believe in, that one day -please just one day- he’d be able to go out.

“Arthur, Pet… It’s okay, yeah?” Eames spoke after a couple of minutes of silence. Arthur blinked and looked back up at Eames who had crouched besides the exit, looking down into the tunnel.

“Trust me?” The Colonel said. The fact that he’d asked this, as he reached out his hand once more, rather than demand it… made Arthur’s skin crawl and his hear skip several beats.  
His mouth ran dry as he looked up at his master. At this English man who owned him as a pet and slave, yet had fed him expensive foods, given him a warm bed, a roof, had not abused him, had not even so much as sexually harassed him… This man who’d shoved aside obligations and commands, who’d chosen to take care of this American boy who should not mean a damn thing to him yet seemed to mean more to him than Arthur had initially wanted to believe.

And though Arthur wanted desperately for his disgust and his anger and his goddamn stubborn pride to return with a vengeance, it didn’t. All he could feel was hope, even his plotting to escape when they’d be outside (which had been the initial meaning for having asked to go out) now was a weak cry in the back of his mind.

It struck Arthur that he had begun to settle. It became harder and harder to remember Eames as the arrogant, intimidating and unreadable capturer which he’d been in the beginning. They’d both changed… They’d both found other goals, other processes of thought, other enemies to loathe.

And he shouldn’t be okay with it… he truly shouldn’t but with the scent of summer and the cool breeze brushing over his cheeks, Arthur didn’t stand a chance. His tummy warm with promise and nostalgia and his heart thumping happily at the sight of the night sky above Eames’ head, stars glistening alluringly begging to be wished upon.  
Arthur didn’t stand a chance even if he’d want to fight his desires.

Eames’ breath hitched when Arthur finally took his offered hand, but both men ignored it. The Brit pulled Arthur out of the tunnel with much ease, his large hands finding no difficulty with wrapping around the kid’s waist and lifting him up.

Arthur’s lips quivered in a restrained smile when his shoes sunk into wet, thick grass as Eames lowered him.

“Alright?” The Brit asked after a moment, his hands lingering for a moment longer on the kid‘s waist. Arthur looked up from the dark grass swaying around his shoes and he didn’t smile, not really… but he was sure a dimple was showing even in the pale moonlight.

Eames looked positively worried, if not awkward.

That was a first.

“Fine.” Arthur replied, his voice thick with emotions that had choked up in his throat and whilst Eames went to close the exit of the tunnel, the boy took in his surroundings and smiled fully, certain that the Brit wouldn’t see.

* * *

 

Arthur didn’t really care for Eames’ shushes and glares as he danced through London’s alleyways. Well, he wasn’t dancing, just skipping and occasionally twirling. It was just Eames who called it ‘dancing’ in the context of ‘stop bloody dancing, Arthur, for Christ’s sake’.

He didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything. The only thing that mattered was that he was outside, underneath a starry sky, dressed warm with a semi-full tummy to cast aside any nausea or dizziness which he’d suffered from daily for three years.  
His hair was soft and freshly washed, his skin smooth and free from bruises, muscles well-rested and his lips lacking any kind of dryness or cuts.  
He hadn’t felt this free in ages, he didn’t remember ever having experienced such euphoria and even the presence of a glowering Eames behind him, couldn’t ruin the buzz.

It were the small things that mattered after all and since Eames was a big thing, Arthur couldn’t care less.

Arthur skipped a couple of feet in front of Eames, his fingers dragging over bricks of decayed homes and abandoned buildings. The sound of his shoes was soft between the dense walls of alleys and cobblestones underneath, then again Arthur’s body was still light for his age.

“Where’re we going?” Arthur asked over his shoulder before once more spinning around three times, high on endorphins. Eames was smiling.

“To the fountain.”

“The fountain?”

“Yeah.” Eames murmured, digging his hands deep into his pockets and his teeth working the third toothpick of the night.

Arthur halted in his tracks and waited for the Brit to catch up with him. They continued their way, walking next to one another, and Arthur didn’t quite remember if he’d ever been allowed to walk next to him rather than a step behind.

All in all, Eames was obviously more calm and carefree this night. Perhaps because they were outside? Arthur assumed the Brit was less likely to be monitored when not home and thus far more relaxed.

“I like fountains.” Arthur said, though he didn’t have a particular adoration for them. Still, after five months of confinement, anything relatively-new sounded exciting.

“As much as apples?” Eames asked casually and Arthur glanced at the man from the corner of his eye.  
He knew the man was on to something. Arthur realized Eames wasn’t mentioning apples like he’d mention the weather. And though Arthur wasn’t sure exactly what his point was, he knew it had something to do with what happened a month ago, knew it had a lot to do with the switch in their relationship.

“No. Apples are my favorite.” He tried, digging his hands into the pockets of his pants and burying his nose in the scarf that smelled sickeningly sweet, sickeningly similar to Eames.

The Colonel watched him for a moment from the corner of his eye before nodding and smiling with a teasing edge to it.

“Good.”

* * *

 

“Isn’t it dangerous?” Arthur asked, his head tipped back as he looked above him at the pitch-black night sky.

“Is what dangerous?” The Brit frowned softly and Arthur could feel the man’s gaze resting on him.

“Being outside like this, together, here.” The boy noted, allowing his legs to swing gently as they dangled from the fountain’s edge on which he was seated.

“I remember when there used to be water in these.” Eames replied instead and though Arthur was curious as to why the Brit chose not to answer, he wasn’t about to ruin ‘the mood’ by urging further.

The boy glanced to his left, at Eames who was looking over his shoulder into the empty fountain, his fingers swiping through the air where there must’ve been water in the past, the look in his eyes… nostalgic. Now though, the fountains looked eerie, green moss and brown smudges of dirt and rain greasing the tiles and half-broken centerpieces.

The large lion statues to their left were paled by the sun, one of them had lost half of its head. Arthur tried to imagine what Trafalgar Square would’ve looked like before the war and he imagined it to have been more beautiful than his current imagination could grasp.

“Do you miss London?” Arthur asked and the question made Eames stir for a split second before he brushed it off and threw the boy a soft smile.

“Wholeheartedly so.” There lied emotion in the Colonel’s eyes but Arthur refused to read any further, refused to consider the man’s grief and the presence of an actual humane soul.

“I miss New York.” Arthur said instead, hoping it would make the Brit cringe. It didn’t though and Eames just nodded before looking back straight ahead of him, his hands once again buried deep in the pockets of his coat, his legs crossed at the ankles as he leaned against the fountain’s low, concrete wall.

“What happens if they find out that I’m American?” Sensing the meek atmosphere, Arthur carefully paced towards questions he’d been wanting to ask for months to no end. Eames didn’t move a muscle, his face carefully blank before he replied.

“It’s not unusual to have an American as a pet or slave.” A dog barked in the distance and Arthur felt giddy to hear such an urban ‘outside’ sound. He hadn’t seen a dog in forever.

“But since Americans are the enemy, it is priority to treat them as genuine slaves if not doormats to wipe our English boots on.” He shrugged at that, glancing sideways at Arthur and obviously reading the boy’s face.

Arthur clenched his jaws and leaned back a bit, hands propped on the fountain’s edge and he allowed his head to tilt backwards, looking back up at the stars.

“You don’t treat me like that, though.”

“That is true.” Eames admitted quietly, still observing the kid.

“So what happens, then? If they find out you haven’t been treating an American as your doormat?” A long silence followed upon Arthur’s question and even though the American wanted an answer to this, he still felt calm and soothed, his heartbeat slow and his tummy warm.

“A normal person would ask why I am not treating them badly rather than what would happen if England got word of it.” There was a teasing layer to the man’s voice and Arthur accepted the change of subject.

“Are you accusing me of being abnormal?” He could see the man’s grin appear even in his peripheral vision and except for a chuckle Eames didn’t deny nor confirm Arthur’s assumption.

The silence that once again followed, this time, was a tad awkward if not thick. Arthur was aware that Eames was observing him as if he was trying to read every little thought and memory of him (perhaps he was) and though he didn’t feel like moving one bit, Arthur still dipped his shoulder and brushed his chin against it as he locked eyes with Eames.

“We have to go.” Eames said, looking a bit startled of having been caught staring, as if he’d been lost in thought.

“Where?” Arthur asked, even though he knew the answer and gracefully accepted Eames’ offered hand to help him off the fountain. He ignored the warmth that had seeped through the man’s leather gloves right through to the boy’s palm.

And if he allowed Eames to fluff up his scarf, and then allowed him to stroke him once over the head, it was just because he was still high on the wonderful night. It was because of the taste he’d been granted, a taste of a brighter future of sorts, a hint of freedom and a sense of genuine appreciation.

And he didn’t smile when Eames led the way back from where they’d come. He just happened to be unable to stop his lips from curling as he stared at the man’s broad back, shoulders rolling with every cat-like stride.

In the past he’d imagined this moment. Imagined how he’d either stab Eames in the back when it would be turned, or just run for it, run so fast and so far until either a bullet or success would allow him to stop in his tracks.

But now, the path they walked together didn’t seem so gruesome. The destination no longer held the eerie disgust of robbed freedom and mental abuse.

Arthur, for the love of him, could not find a reason at this particular moment to not follow Eames back and he whispered the answer Eames hadn’t spoken, with a lack of bite and an attentive amount of hopefulness.

“Home.”


	29. Now My Heart is Full

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda had stuff going on and wanted to fling myself off a bridge for the past week  
> anyways, here it is
> 
> your well-deserved chapter!
> 
> thanks for your patience and enjoy
> 
> (i was listening to sad music and this whole chapter turned emotional)

  
**Part Twenty-nine**   
_\- Now My Heart is Full -_   


Apparently taking Arthur out had done miracles to the boy’s obedience and emotional state. Eames noted this with much gratification as he watched the Yank seated on his pillow, greasing Eames’ Oxfords with a blush tinting high on his cheekbones.

In all of the boy’s defense, it was THAT particular pair and the Brit could almost hear Arthur’s memory screeching to a halt only to replay the scenario of when he’d kissed and licked them, over and over again in his head.  
Well, if the flustered state of his pet was anything to go by.

Watching him, sitting small and long-limbed at the bed’s foot-end, toes wiggling absently, did distract Eames from more urgent worries such as Saito’s request for dinner WITH both of their pets.

It was socially acceptable to take one’s pet along for dinner parties. The true meaning of those were about far more than a friendly chat and hors d’oeuvres though. Pet-exchange and slave-swapping was something Eames knew Saito enjoyed to participate in.  
And though Saito had only invited Eames and Arthur (Joe), he knew his boss’ true desires for that night.

Desires which would not be granted, unless over Eames’ dead body.

“Eames?” The sound of his name woke the Brit from his thoughts and he blinked whilst refocusing his gaze on his pet. He did so much enjoy when Arthur called him by his name rather than the occasional bitten ‘sir’ or the bratty-toned ‘Colonel’.

“What is it?” The man asked, an annoyed lilt to his voice because he feared Arthur had caught him in the midst of a worried-and-pondering facial expression. Either way he leaned back over the papers on his desk and feigned to work whilst waiting for the boy to continue.

But before Arthur could tell what had been on his mind, a knock at the door interrupted him.  
Eames cursed under his breath and swore on his pet’s head that if it was bloody Jack again (he’d visited three times that day and Eames was starting to suspect of his soldier to have a puppy-love-crush on ‘Joe’) he would either hit Jack over the head or rip one of his ancient phonebooks in half with his bare hands.

When Eames went to open the door, one of his other soldiers was waiting and then told him ‘an old friend’ was coming over.

“An old friend?” Eames frowned.

“Yes Colonel. He told me to tell you his name was once confused by your drunken self with a particular kind of cheese.” It only took half a second before Eames caught up on the ‘riddle’ and a modest grin splayed on his lips.

“Very well, send him to my office.”

“Right away, Sir!” The soldier barked, his movements -as he saluted before turning around- were crisp and controlled.

“I need to go.” Eames said as he closed the door and moved to his dresser to fetch himself a tie. In his peripheral vision he could see the boy stir before he straightened his back.

“Why?” Arthur asked, his voice hid any underlying reason for the question but still Eames peeked over his shoulder towards the pet.

Arthur blushed when their eyes met and the Colonel’s tummy fluttered at the sight of an embarrassed Arthur, a sight he hadn’t been able to behold that many times before.

“What? Will you miss me then?” Eames teased a bit before holding up two ties and cocking his head as he pondered which one would go better with the grey suit he was wearing.

“The left one.” Arthur spoke, pointing towards the navy-blue tie which had tiny golden squares on it. The Colonel didn’t mind that the boy had ignored his earlier question and instead nodded before flinging the beige-tinted tie back in the dresser-drawer behind him.

Having flung the tie around his neck, both ends hanging loose over his white shirt, Eames then focused on adding his cufflinks to the firmly-ironed sleeves.  
The distraction caused by the ridiculously tiny silver buttons, made for Eames to not notice Arthur having gotten up before the boy was standing in front of him, hands already reaching out to the tie.

Eames glanced through his lashes at the boy, could swear Arthur had grown a tad, and Arthur shrugged as their eyes met.

“You look in a hurry. Let me help you.” Eames had had no clue that Arthur could even so much as knot a tie and he watched -impressed- as the kid folded the fabric in a neat Trinity knot. The reason for why the kid had offered help was a mystery to Eames… it just seemed that the only thing pulling away Arthur from the Oxfords had been the promise of a fancy knotted tie.

Arthur awkwardly patted his hand over the three patches of fabric, tied together with precision, before he dipped his chin and took a step back.

Arthur looked embarrassed, almost as if he felt guilty for having betrayed his own cold exterior and feigned sense of indifference. Eames had known all of it to have been an act, had known so from the start… Arthur, after all, was merely a young boy. Arthur probably desired, needed, to explode. It wasn’t healthy -especially at his age- to lock away emotions as he did.

Pet or no pet, one should never be left unsure of kind deeds done by oneself and thus Eames saw no harm in reassuring him that he’d done a lovely job helping out like that. Not to mention, having shoved away his pride and cold exterior for Eames’ beneficence.

“Thank you, Arthur.” Eames spoke as the silence stretched on. He didn’t option to say ‘good boy’ or any of those, because he appreciated the kid as the kid… not the pet.  
When the Yank stirred at the words, Eames reached out and wrapped his hand around the back of the boy’s neck, pulling him closer until Arthur’s nose and forehead dipped against his chest.

“That was very thoughtful of you.” The Brit murmured against the crown of the boy’s head, where he’d buried his nose in the mass of black hair found there. His thumb stroked slowly behind the shell of his ear, half-massaging the side of the boy’s scalp.

Arthur’s scent made Eames ache. He longed to smell him lewdly, desired to breathe him in until he grew dizzy with the intoxication. Eames felt an almost-painful pining, a need to taste and watch and feel and hear Arthur until the boy was completely taken in by him, wholly devoured.

He took a deep breath, a last subtle inhale of the kid’s scent, before pulling back.  
His heart stuttered to a momentary halt when something prevented him from breaking apart the semi-embrace.

Eames blinked, staring at nothing in particular as his nose remained buried in Arthur’s hair. The boy seemed to tremble, yet the arms which he’d wrapped around the small of Eames’ back, were firm and not uncertain of their intention.

“I started sleeping in your bed because it soothes me.” Arthur blurted against Eames’ chest, his voice muffled by more than only the fabric of the Colonel’s white shirt. The words had been spoken fast, as if he’d feared to have swallowed them otherwise.  
The Brit didn’t dare move, holding his breath as he still stared wide-eyed in front of him, his lips awkwardly resting on the boy’s head and his hand still on the back of his neck. His other -free- hand was folded into a white-knuckled fist to his side.

“Your scent soothes me.” The boy shifted a bit but didn’t make any move that assumed he’d wanted to interrupt the tight embrace… In contrary… he only seemed to want to get closer but tried not to be obvious about it.

“Ever since the apple… I keep smelling apples when I’m close to you… I can only smell it when I’m barely a foot apart… Either way, it is the reason why I started to sleep in your bed… The bed smells of you and apples… When I close my eyes I can’t even tell the difference between your scent and the apples’ … I li-” His jaw clacked shut as if he’d bitten off words.

“You like apples.” Eames finished for him, sensing the kid was starting to crawl back into his shell after the revealing ramble. Though the Colonel still was unsure of what exactly the fruit meant to the boy, he knew now more than ever, that it had to be something major… Something related to his past, perhaps to his parents.

It made for the kid to now associate Eames with the positivism that was a long-lost nostalgic memory. Though it should please Eames… somehow it also made him grieve for the boy.

“I like apples.” Arthur confirmed, his arms losing their strength and allowing for Eames to carefully peel the boy from him; which he didn‘t do until another minute had passed by.   
He kept both of his hands on Arthur’s shoulders when he pulled back, afraid to let him go and lose the vulnerable child he was now witnessing.

Arthur’s face -when he looked up at him- looked pale and terribly young. His brown eyes were dark and wide, and his lips curled down in something that could be resembling a grimace.

“I’ll take care of you, Arthur.” The Brit spoke slowly, his voice low and soft. Arthur’s eyes flickered from Eames’ to the man’s lips and back up, reading his face with a desperation that was very obvious on his own.

“I know.” The American said instead. His voice didn’t waver.

“You know.” Eames confirmed, his heart thumping loud in his ears as he witnessed the boy realizing that he could come to trust Eames. He didn’t know what had caused this… Perhaps the shoes and the tie… Maybe the lack of sleep or the last-night nightmare that had woken Eames because Arthur had jumped up, screaming and flailing limbs until the Brit had shushed him, petting his damp-with-sweat hair until he’d drifted off once more.

Either way. Arthur was vulnerable… and this was not something to mess with. The boy lied open for him and Eames had many options at that exact moment.  
He could break or make the kid. Could cut a life-wire, or could repair visible damage. It was an eerie amount of power to posses and though Eames had never had problems with power and responsibility in the past… being a guardian (of sorts) to this boy freaked him out more than once a week.

“Do you want me to stay?” Eames asked, his grip on the kid’s shoulders tightening.

Arthur seemed to go through an internal struggle right after that. His face flushed and his eyes shifted around, his spine straightening in a poor attempt to look more confident and indifferent than he was.  
It was endearing.

“I will stay.”

“You don’t-”

“I will stay.” Eames repeated more firmly, raising his eyebrows and watching the kid until his body started to relax subconsciously underneath the man’s hands.

“Good boy.” He whispered when Arthur finally lowered his eyes and nodded.

Eames carefully pulled away then and kept a careful eye on him when he made way to the door. Opening said door, the Brit then proceeded telling one of his soldiers to send his visitor to the bedroom.

Arthur was seated on his pillow once more when Eames turned around to walk back to his desk. The boy’s face was back to blank, his lips a thin line and his eyes carefully pointed downwards to the task at hand; greasing the Oxfords.

Eames didn’t talk to him for the remainder of time. Knew that Arthur was still vulnerable and most likely ashamed at what had happened. But he also was sure that the boy was now busy replaying what had happened, replaying the words Eames had said.  
He granted Arthur his ‘alone-time’ in his presence. Because he wanted the kid to be himself, to be completely at ease in the Brit’s presence.

That day would come to him.

He could see it nearing every single day. Eames watched Arthur’s walls crumble slowly, revealing an even more stunning treasure than he’d ever hoped to possess.

That treasure would come to him.

 


	30. You Remain Because All You Need is Me

  
**Part Thirty**   
_\- You Remain Because All You Need is Me -_   


Arthur was pretty much over the whole guilt-tripping and self-loathing.

Alright, he had once again shown Eames his weaknesses, had once more allowed the man to comfort him, had once more allowed the man to make him feel warm inside… But he was tired of beating himself up over something he seemingly couldn’t control.

It wasn’t a choice any longer. Arthur couldn’t decide anymore whether to be angry or amused.  
His emotions roamed freely and washed over him with such urgency that he feared to drown. But the more he accepted repressed truths, the easier it was for him to swim back up to the surface and breathe.

And that’s why he didn’t feel bad about Eames staying with him that night.  
He didn’t really feel guilty for allowing the Brit to find out that Arthur wanted him to stay. After all, Eames didn’t know exactly ‘why’ Arthur desired his presence and thus everything was alright.

The American felt no need to share with the Colonel that his mother’s birthday was today. He’d only found out a couple of hours ago when sneaking a peek at Eames’ agenda as he’d passed his desk. The Brit had been scrapping through various appointments which he’d cancelled or attended to earlier that morning.

Arthur didn’t want to be alone on his mother’s birthday.  
He didn’t want time to think about her and that’s why he sat on his pillow, finishing up the pair of Oxfords while being observed by their owner.

“Who’s coming to visit?” Arthur asked, feigning indifference as he got up and carried the shoes to their spot underneath the dresser.

“An old friend.” Eames replied and Arthur caught him gazing at him when he looked over his shoulder as he stood bent over to slide the shoes under the furniture.

“Tell me, Arthur, do you remember the rules for when we have company?” The boy watched as Eames leaned back in his seat, raising his arms only to fold his hands behind his head, resting his scalp on palms.

“I do.” He replied, straightening up and walking towards Eames’ desk.

“Two words at all times.” The kid began, confident in knowing all rules from the top of his head. Eames’ eyebrows rose curiously, his body turned in the chair only slightly, to follow Arthur’s path as he cornered the desk.

“No eye-contact and preferably keeping sight downcast.” Arthur leaned against the furniture when he came to a stop next to Eames. The Brit looked up at him, a small smile on his lips as he waited for his pet to continue.

“No talking unless asked a question or ordered to.” Their eyes locked for a second.

“Always seating oneself at a lower level than the master, or if circumstances demand; at similar level, never higher.”

“Good boy.” Arthur almost smiled at the praise but he bit it back firmly.

“No sulking, pouting, glaring or any other facial expression that may show disrespect. Same goes for sounds such as huffing or sighing. Commands must be obeyed immediately and without hesitating or denying. Punishment must be accepted with pride and in a submissive demeanor.” Eames nodded, seemingly impressed that Arthur had kept track of all the rules when they hadn’t been repeated by Eames that often in the past. The American though had assumed early on that such details would be of importance and thus had crammed them into his brain until he could state them without second-guessing, backwards and back.

“Company and visitors must be completely ignored unless stated otherwise by the owner. The only initiative to be shown is when I feel threatened and my safety is in danger. Self-defense is absolutely acceptable.” Arthur scratched his nose a bit awkwardly when a long pause followed.

Just when he was about to wonder if he’d forgotten a rule, Eames nodded and reached over to Arthur who only stood a couple of feet away from him.  
The boy tensed when Eames grabbed his wrist, though it wasn’t the same nervousness he’d experienced in the past. It wasn’t that he was scared, nor disgusted.  
He was merely anticipating, the heat of the Brit’s hand and the strength of his fingers making Arthur’s tummy flip pleasantly.

It was with much braveness and denied shyness that Arthur allowed the Colonel to pull him on his lap. The feeling of Eames’ hard thighs beneath his bottom, made him wriggle in the man’s lap before finally settling with both legs thrown over the right arm-rest of the chair, his back leaning against Eames’ left arm.

Eames pulled him against his chest then and the American held his breath and tried to relax as much as possible as his face got buried in the crook of the man’s neck.

“A-aren’t we expecting a visitor?” The kid asked awkwardly, though his eyes fluttered close when he accidentally inhaled Eames’ warm, fruity scent. The hint of apples -imagined or not- immediately decreased his heartbeat and he felt his body already starting to slump in the man’s arms.

“ _We_ are.” Eames muttered, accenting the first word to pinpoint its meaning. Arthur hadn’t meant to say we, nor does he ever mean to think of this room as _their_ room, and this place being their _home_. But it was. It was his home, his’ and Eames’.

Arthur had also not meant to bring up the fact that they were currently hugging one another. But there was not much of a choice unless one would be able to ignore sitting on another man’s lap and having his face buried in his throat.

“He’ll knock, though.” The Brit soothed, stroking a hand over the boy’s head, brushing fingers through his pitch-black hair which was still a bit damp because of his earlier shower.

It took about ten more minutes before a knock fell on the door, waking Arthur from his half-slumber and making Eames perk in his seat.

“Have a seat on your pillow and just relax, Darling.” The boy pulled away, getting up a bit groggily before making way to his spot and seating down on it.

Arthur watched, curiously, Eames going to open the door before a rumble of loud English-dialected words got spewed around and a tight hug -including shoulder patting- followed.

The visitor was maybe in his late forties, a tad taller than Eames with graying hair and ice blue eyes. He looked a bit taken aback by the Colonel’s welcoming but still walked inside to take a seat at the desk.

It took Arthur about ten minutes before he decided he liked the man going by the name of Morrissey (or as Eames liked to call him; Mozzarella).  
One of the things were that this half-Irish man wasn’t particularly fond of the current war, let alone the pet-master dynamics. He also seemed to have a disgust for the English, or more so for the corrupt society and its leaders.

The friendship between both men seemed to go way back and there was an understanding there which Arthur couldn’t pinpoint but most certainly informed him that Eames was absolutely not as bad as he’d thought of him to be.

Another fact that made Arthur keen over this visitor was that he’d actually brought along a whole bag of books for him. It went from study-books to architecture to photography collections (of the States) all the way to classic Oscar Wilde novels (some of which Eames didn’t even own).

Needless to say, Eames dismissed the rules within mere seconds and Arthur was now flopped down on the bed going through the lovely aged books Morrissey had brought for him.

He tried to follow both men’s conversation and noticed they talked carefully, thoughtfully, aware that what they said could be used against them. After all, as far as Arthur’s knowledge went, the Colonel of England’s military should not be agreeing with an Irishman about how corrupt and wrong the current war was being led. Let alone about the dictatorship and citizen-rights, or lack therefore.

It was incredibly stupid or remarkably endearing how Eames trusted Arthur to be in the same room where his whispered words with Morrissey flew freely for his ears to receive.  
The American wasn’t stupid, though, he knew damn well he’d be off much worse were he to lose Eames’ supervision.

Morrissey at one point also said -with a voice so deep and smooth it made Arthur second-guess whether Eames’ voice was the most beautiful one he’d ever heard- that though he understood that in the position of Colonel he could no longer deny ownership over a human pet, he still was amused that it ended up being an American one.

The aging man, who surely must’ve been very handsome when he’d been younger, didn’t hide his dislike for not only the English but as well as for the Americans. It took Arthur half an hour before he understood that Morrissey pretty much wasn’t a people-person and he disliked most human beings… For him to be friends with the obnoxious Brit that was his master, was a laughable but true matter.

Arthur zoned out of the conversation between Eames and Morrissey, when he turned a yellowing page and stared at a picture of Time Square. It looked vibrant, lively and charismatic. Full of people, cabs and neon-lights, asphalt glossy with rain. Not at all like the shadow it had been when he’d passed through with his mother when they’d been on the run.

His heart ached immediately, not only for his parents and past, but as well for his roots… his country and nationality.

Blinking a couple of times and swallowing the sting from his nose back into his throat, he glanced sideways at the two men. They were still whispering, Eames smiling and Morrissey chuckling (revealing a dimple Arthur hadn’t noticed before).

With their attention focused on one another, the boy felt secure enough to rest his cheek on the picture of old New York City. He closed his eyes, fingers stroking idly over the slightly-cold page, his other arm clutched underneath his chest as he lied on his tummy on the bed.

His intention wasn’t to drift off, but with the memories of his mother and father, of his childhood and his country, the warmth of Eames’ duvets and the soft murmur of the Brit’s voice in the background… he couldn’t help but allow sleep to wash over him.

Even with his heart aching for his past, it was his present that soothed him. Perhaps even his future, a future spend with Eames who’d protect him and take care of him… well, Arthur sighed in relief and drifted off.

* * *

 

He woke, hours later, by the sensation of a hand stroking over his head. Arthur’s eyes fluttered open, glancing to his right, above him, and spotting Eames leaning over him with a smile.

“Morrissey has left.” The man’s hand which now rested on his shoulder, squeezed once before pulling back.  
Arthur quickly grabbed it, keeping the warmth and secure touch on him before he wiped a little bit of drool from the corner of his mouth with his shoulder.

“I drooled on New York.” Arthur whispered, his voice cracking with sleep and as he lifted his head from the page, Eames proceeded to peel the book from underneath him, making sure his other hand stayed on the kid’s shoulder.

“So you have.” The Colonel whispered, his voice huffed with amusement.

“Did you thank him?” Arthur asked whilst allowing Eames to stuff a pillow under his cheek.

“I did.” The kid nodded and a long silence followed where Eames stood awkwardly leaning over the boy, his hand still trapped between the kid’s and his bony shoulder.

Matter of fact was that Arthur had never lied on the bed in such a way. He normally slept on his pillow or on the feet-end of the bed… never here, in the middle of the damn mattress.  
He should move… He should get up and allow Eames to get to bed, but he didn’t.  
He couldn’t move even if it’d save his life. It was too warm, too cozy, familiar, soothing, nostalgic. Arthur felt blissfully happy and wanted to remain here for as long as it would make him feel this… this full.

“Sleep. I’ll be in my office.”

“What time is it?” Eames paused at the boy’s question before replying.

“About three in the morning.”

“Do you have to work?” The boy’s heartbeat increased and he didn’t know what he was nervous about, but when Eames replied with a ‘no’, he started to wriggle and scoot over.

The Brit didn’t stop him and after a dreadfully long pause he pulled his hand away gently, Arthur listened to the man starting to undress.

They didn’t speak when he crawled into bed with him, nor did Arthur grow nervous when he could feel the Brit’s body heat even though they lied many inches apart from one another.  
He could feel Eames’ eyes on the back of his head, could feel the man’s tension, but he didn’t move. Neither of them did, too afraid to ruin whatever it was that was happening.

This was fragile.

Arthur drifted off within minutes, the scent and warmth of Eames calming him down to a puddle of relieved delight, filling his chest and heart. This was safety, this was a sense of belonging. He could call this home… one day when he was ready… he would call Eames home.

Arthur didn’t have nightmares that night, he slept like a log and only woke once to feel Eames scoot closer to him and bury his cold nose in the nape of his neck.  
It was the only physical touch that night but yet it didn’t fail to have Arthur scratch the back of his neck like a madman for many days to follow.


	31. Has the World Changed or Have I Changed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many passive-aggressive tumblr anon messages about my story urges me to write.  
> Hence, two updates in two days!
> 
> Thank you, guys!

  
**Part Thirty-One**   
_\- Has the World Changed or Have I Changed? -_   


Eames woke with a start, inhaling sharply and nearly suffocating in thick hair and sweet scent.

It took five seconds of him opening his eyes and taking in his surroundings in the dark before he remembered where he was.

As he looked down at Arthur he noticed the kid wasn’t faced away any longer and soon his body followed to realize the American had pressed himself against it. Eames took a careful, shuddering breath before he wrapped his arms more tightly around the boy.

Arthur, bless him, only mewled softly and snuggled closer to the Colonel. Eames fell asleep straight away, not bothering to check the time.

* * *

 

When Eames woke once more, an hour later, Arthur had disappeared from the bed for which the Brit was grateful… His headache wasn’t keen on the thought of having to put up with awkward morning-wood and startled little boys.

As the man sat up and turned on the lamp besides his bed, Arthur opened to bathroom door and revealed his naked self.   
Both of them stopped immediately with what they were doing, causing Eames to still be turned half towards the lamp and Arthur with a foot tilted from the floor. The eye-contact was awkward, both obviously recalling what had happened last night.

Unlike the last time Arthur had slept in Eames’ arms, this time the kid actually did remember it.

“Good morning, Arthur.” The Brit broke the silence gingerly, pulling back from the lamp slowly, afraid to startle the kid like a deer and have it flee back inside the bathroom.

Arthur seemed to break out of his mid-step pause and he straightened up with a blush, cupping himself with both hands.

“Morning.” He growled, his eyes shifting away, back and then away again to the dresser.

Eames smiled as he watched Arthur grab some clothes and disappear back into the bathroom, closing the door a tad too loud behind himself.

The Brit decided he wouldn’t give the kid a hard time about last night. He didn’t mind Arthur sleeping in his bed with him, in contrary Eames enjoyed it and knew that the slightest teasing about the subject would have Arthur crawl back into his shell and move to his pillow each night.

He couldn’t have that.

Their morning continued peacefully. Arthur made sure to pick out Eames’ shoes and tie (something he seemed to enjoy doing) while Eames accepted breakfast from Jean-Pierre at the door.

Eames ate at his desk, Arthur sat on the bed surrounded by the books given to him by Morrissey, chewing on a slice of pineapple.   
When the Brit caught himself on staring at his pet, his stomach warm with the memories of that pale, lean body pressed against him the whole night, he noted to himself that he should start having breakfast in his office once more instead of the bedroom (which, after all these months, pretty much was Arthur’s domain).

But he enjoyed this too much. He reveled in the little pleased sounds the kid made when eating the juicy fruits. Fruits which were becoming more and more rare and that much more expensive. For each bite of bread and cheese Eames would take, he appreciated the lack of variety and sweetness simply because he knew it would be offered to Arthur instead, thanks to his own sacrifice.

Something the kid didn’t need to know and hadn’t seem to have noticed so far.

“I’m having an important meeting with Saito tomorrow night.” Arthur stirred at the name and threw Eames a sideway glance.

“Yeah?” He asked, looking back down at the book in his lap, turning a page with his left hand whilst holding a piece of pineapple with his right, sucking on the yellow fruit. Eames momentarily allowed himself to be distracted by the sight and sounds of Arthur’s pink lips suckling and nipping.

Bloody accidental-tease.

“You have to join me.” Arthur didn’t react to that for a moment, his eyes still lingering on a picture of Paris’ Eifel Tower, before it had been bombed down by the Yanks about five years ago.  
He ate the piece of pineapple, chewing, swallowing and then sucking his fingers clean after having swiped his tongue over his wrist where a bead of juice had rolled down. Eames thanked years of military training to keep himself from losing it over the arousing sight. If he’d been a decade younger he’d have cum right in his trousers.

“Why?” Arthur asked, turning another page and wiping his sticky hand on his trousers. Though his voice seemed indifferent, the tension in his shoulders proved something else.

“He’s bringing his own pet along… I’m inclined to have you join me, Arthur, I do hope you understand.” The boy shrugged at that.

Eames truly wished he didn’t have to take Arthur along to Saito’s appointment. He knew damn well what his boss’ intentions were. But he didn’t have a choice. To keep Arthur safe it would be more logical to having him join their meeting rather than keep him locked away from Saito which would only anger the man up to the point where he’d make sure to punish Eames or Arthur, most likely both.

“I don’t like him.” Arthur muttered, scratching his neck nervously before closing the book on his lap and placing it besides him on the pile of others. Eames watched the boy shift, sitting cross-legged and facing Eames as he placed the bowl of fruit in his lap, his long fingers digging around for something he liked best.

Arthur ate his food in particular orders, taking what he liked most the first and finishing with whatever he liked least. It probably was a wee side-effect of having starved for the past three years and thus he chose to take the best first, whenever he could.  
Eames enjoyed watching the kid eat bread because he’d peel the center out and leave the crusts for last.  
It was endearing and darlingly childish.

“It’ll be safer this way. I won’t let anything happen to you, if that’s what you’re worried about?”

“It is.” Arthur agreed, admitting his fears without second-guessing. Eames felt his heart swell with pride and adoration. The kid was starting to trust him.

“Well, don’t worry, you’re my pet after all.”

“He’s your boss, though.” Arthur rose a meaningful eyebrow at that before opening his mouth and popping a grape inside of it. Eames mentally made a list of Arthur’s favorite fruits in order.  
In the months he’d known the kid, the list was ‘apple - strawberry - pineapple - mango - grape - cherry’.  
Eames wasn’t sure of what came after cherry. Maybe oranges… Or perhaps banana?

“That doesn’t matter.” Eames said, his mouth felt stiff around the words.

“That’s stupid.” Arthur snorted instead and Eames knew he was right, he only hoped the boy believed he was lying… Eames himself wasn’t even over the fact yet that he’d sacrifice his own arse for this bloody Yank.

When Arthur made a little sound as he’d found a cherry in the bowl, Eames still smiled, not finding it within himself to care about Saito and their uncertain future together.

What mattered now was the slight hint of a dimple in the boy’s left cheek and the way his toes wiggled as he worried the cherry between his teeth, fingers holding the stem gingerly.

* * *

 

In contrary to Saito’s slave, Arthur was being a superb pet.  
In contrary to Arthur’s rules of ignoring all presence but Eames’, Saito’s slave had by now thrown Eames at least six sly glances.

And Arthur knew so.

The tension and anger that radiated from the little American made the hairs on the back of Eames’ neck rise up.   
He hadn’t thought it would end up like this. Eames had expected that he’d be the one being pissed off all evening because of Saito’s interest in his pet… But he hadn’t expected Roger-Rob-Robert-whatever-his-name-was to have an interest in him and make Arthur jealous.

The fact that Arthur was jealous in the first place astounded the Brit.

The atmosphere was thick and dangerous, electricity of the worst kind seemed to zap in between all four of them and Eames sighed in relief when Saito offered for them to move on to desserts.

They were close… They’d survived three hours so far, just another two hours of biscuits and tea and it’d be over.

So far Saito hadn’t pushed his luck, but there was an anticipation that unnerved Eames more than any action would’ve.

Arthur had chosen earlier that day that he’d rather not eat than to feed himself from a bowl on the floor. The boy sat next to him, proudly. His back straight, hands on his knees and knees on a pillow on the floor next to Eames’ chair. His gaze was downcast, his lips thinned in a firm line… It was only the stiffness in his shoulders and the slight grinding of teeth only Eames could hear, that let him know Arthur was pissed off.

The conversation with his boss was dull, about nothing and just a sickening foreplay to whatever the man had planned.  
Arthur’s tummy grumbled when Eames took a third bite from the raspberry tiramisu in front of him and he remembered then that raspberry most definitely was Arthur’s seventh choice on his favorite-fruits-list.

He scooped a lush amount of mascarpone on his fork before digging into an amaretto-soaked raspberry and then lowering the fork next to him, ignoring Saito’s leer.   
Arthur was HIS pet, he could do with him whatever he wanted. He held enough power to defend himself and Saito held enough respect to allow him said power.

It was a childish, yet necessary bluff of rebellion, but Eames was a gambler and luck was very often on his side.

Arthur glared only for a second, that was before he noticed the raspberry and opened his mouth wide. Eames didn’t miss how his pet narrowed his eyes at Saito’s slave (Robert, definitely Robert) who also sat next to his owner’s chair on the floor, yet he didn’t have a pillow.

“Good boy.” Eames muttered when Arthur wrapped his lips around the fork and waited patiently for Eames to pull it back out. He waited for a couple of seconds, making sure both Saito and Robert could see the display of dominance and obedience, and then pulled the silver fork from between the kid‘s almost-red lips. He patted Arthur twice on the head as the kid chewed the food.   
Arthur’s cheeks were pink, flustered with either agitation or embarrassment but he was obeying beautifully, his gaze once more fixed on his own lap, his back straight and proud.

* * *

 

Everything went tits up when they went from desserts to Whiskeys.

The whole atmosphere shifted when Saito asked a question he’d probably had been wanting to ask all night long. Though, it hadn’t really been a question, but more so a demand.

Eames had dreaded it.  
Arthur had as well.  
Heck, Robert probably had also been expecting it with not much enthusiasm.

But there it was, the Jap’s words hung thick and heavy between them. Thrown out on the table like the guts of a mangled shark, on display for disgust yet high prices. Stinking and disgusting and making Eames long to grab Arthur by the wrist and drag him out of there.

And the Brit needed time to come up with the least suspicious answer. He might be excellent at bluffing and having luck travel along with him, but right now he was at a loss of words and any presence of superstitious positivism.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Eames asked behind the rim of his glass, hoping that Saito hadn’t noticed him choking on the alcohol, Arthur surely had though he wasn’t amused by it and had just grown as pale as a sheet of paper.

“I asked, Mr. Eames, for your pet. I want it. Now.”


	32. Let Me Live Before I Die

  
**Chapter 32**   
_Let Me Live Before I Die_   


Arthur felt his stomach turn at the exact moment Saito told Eames that he wanted him. But it wasn’t until he saw his master’s uncertainty that he felt his insides knot together and leap up in the back of his throat.

Eames wasn’t sure of himself and Arthur didn’t think his hesitation had been bluffed. He’d told Arthur that nothing would happen to him but in the moment itself the boy still feared the worst.

“Lord Saito, with all due respect, do I need to remind you of the laws regarding rights of pet-and-slave ownership?” A long pause followed and Arthur wished dearly that Eames just had made a passable argument.

“As leader of England’s current war-zone, I am fully aware of the rules, Mr Eames, this being said…” Arthur cringed when he noticed Saito throwing him a glance. He didn’t look up though.  
He was Eames’ pet and he’d obey the man’s rules of keeping his eyes downcast. He’d listen to Eames and Eames only, because he was his’ and his’ only.

“I’m in high enough of positions to disregard any rules claiming that Colonels as well as Generals have complete ownership over their pets and given right to refuse selling and-or sharing them even to those more powerful than them.” Arthur had never heard about those named rules and found it ironically amusing how there even existed rules about public happenings such as human corruption in the first place.

“As the Colonel I also have rights to file a complaint against you. A leader being scolded at by his right-hand is a leader stepping towards an abyss of fallen idolization and democracy.” Another silence followed and Arthur could feel the tension oozing from Eames next of him. He startled only slightly when the Brit placed a protective –if not obsessive- hand on the back of his neck, fingers cradling.

“You would risk your career, your life, simply in order to protect your pet and with that betray _your leader_?!” The last two words had been shouted by Saito himself. It seemed uncharacteristic, and thus quite intimidating, for this calm and in-control man to raise his voice.

Eames had quite obviously hit a nerve and by the feeling of his fingers loosening their grip on Arthur’s neck, it had been his intention.

“Saito,” He began and Arthur didn’t miss how he left out ‘Lord’ or ‘Mister’. Eames was treading on familiar if not intimate terrain, using whatever their bond was to his own advantage.

“It would hurt me dearly to betray the man who took me under his wing and raised me as his own son.” He got up then, slowly and swung a leg over Arthur as he made way towards Saito who in turn as well rose from his seat.

Arthur dared to look up, watching Eames stand in front of Saito, the latter of which was at least a head taller. Still, the Colonel didn’t look intimidated in the least, instead just leaning close into Saito’s personal space, his shin nearly bumping into Robert who still sat on the floor next to his master’s chair.

“I respect you, Saito.” Eames spoke lowly. Arthur observed his body, bunched up and broad next to Saito’s stiff and lean posture. His eyes weren’t looking at Saito, more so over his shoulder, but his flared nostrils and the tense line of his jaw left no doubt to be felt about the seriousness and underlying threat to his words.

“I appreciate all you have done for me. It is not my desire to betray you. As a man of honour, I want for us to accept our differences of opinion.” Saito’s face remained blank, his hands loose at his sides and Eames’ grey eyes flickered for a split second to his boss’.

“My honour has been taught and accepted by you from the beginning. It hurts me dearly to have to deny you anything, my Lord… Albeit I beg of you to respect my choices as I do yours and do find within yourself the honour shared with mine.” Arthur felt a shiver roll down his spine. He’d never witnessed dearer words being spoken so coldly as he did just now.

Saito and Eames looked into each other’s eyes then, reading and anticipating before the Japanese man finally huffed and reached out to grab his empty glass from the table.

“We’ve had too much to drink, have we not?” He smiled, wiggling the glass in front of Eames’ face who –after a couple of blinks- seemed to snap out of it and lean back.

“We have.” Eames replied, flashing his canines in a predatory grin before walking around Saito and the table, grabbing the bottle of Whiskey left on its centre.

Though they continued a small chat afterwards, and the appearances were back in place, Arthur was very certain that Saito’s so-said honour had been very much disrespected by Eames standing up for himself. If anything, the Japanese man would now be more determined to fuck everything up.

Why Saito had given in was unknown to Arthur. But he could only come up with negative reasoning for it, such as that the man was patient and chose to continue his hunt later on with less presence of threat in the form of Eames.

Eames on the other hand seemed to not be bothered by future thoughts and found no problem in embracing his leader in a tight hug before calling it a night. He swayed on his legs a bit, the drunken haze making up for his crudeness (hopefully).

All in all the night had been stressful to the maximum and Arthur ignored Robert’s snarl and Saito’s penetrative gaze when Eames pulled him up from his pillow and led him to the door.

The goodbyes that followed happened quickly as the four of them walked through the hallways of Eames’ underground home.  
Arthur noted how the Brit’s hand never left nor loosened its grip on his biceps. It was a painful contrast to how Robert was demanded to stay behind the three of them by a couple of feet.

Arthur knew this couldn’t be good. He was aware Eames shouldn’t show this much… ‘affection’ to his pet, not in front of this cruel man who most likely was already plotting vengeance for having been denied ownership over Arthur.  
The kid also knew that he shouldn’t feel disgustingly proud that Eames only had eyes for him and didn’t even consider acknowledging Robert (who’d been giving the Brit some sly, flirtatious glances throughout the night).

But he revelled in the current setting. Enjoyed the warmth and certainty of Eames’ grip on him, physical and emotional.  
Arthur revelled in the knowledge that Eames would betray his leader, his Lord, for the sake of his pet. His mere pet… A mere American, little boy not worth any trouble.

But here he was. Standing next to the Brit as he patted Saito on the shoulder and promised him another dinner soon. His dialect rolled off his tongue with ease, his voice as smooth as fucking sandpaper would ever be able to be.

And then here he was, being hugged painfully tight to the man’s chest the moment the door closed behind Saito, Robert and both soldiers guarding the entrance and they were left alone.

Neither one of them said a word, Arthur knew right away Eames wasn’t as drunk as he’d feigned to be in the last moments of the night. Arthur also knew right away Eames was far more scared than he let out to be… Well… if his pounding heartbeat was anything to go by.

Arthur rested his ear against the man’s chest, even though his pulse was deafening and the pace was almost frightening.   
Eames stroked his hair, his nose buried there as well, he breathed and hushed until at last Arthur listened to the beating of his heart pacing down. The Brit calming down himself rather than his pet.

They embraced for longer than Arthur would ever care to admit.  
They stood fragile for longer than both of them would ever care to accept.

* * *

 

The next morning Arthur was in a horrible mood.

For all that he’d been revelling in the Brit’s stupidity to rebel against England’s leader, he now wanted to punch him in the face for being such an idiot.

“There’s no way he’ll accept this.” Arthur scowled, staring at his toes as they wiggled about.

“Arthur, Pet, I’ve known Saito for over a decade… I know what I’m doing.” The American tipped his head back and looked at Eames who sat upside down behind his upside down desk.

The boy had chosen to stretch his legs up against the wall, his back resting on the seat of the chair he’d been demanded to sit on, only an hour ago. Arthur had had a little fit, thrown his bowl of expensive fruits onto the floor and told Eames to fuck off and leave him alone instead of asking him how he’d slept.

It had been silly… Overreacting maybe.  
But there were days Arthur couldn’t escape the truth that Eames was the one keeping him like a bird in a cage, denying him freedom and space to spread his wings.  
In those moments everything the man did would grind the boy’s gears.

Eames had decided, as punishment, for Arthur to seat himself on a chair in the corner of the Brit’s office… All day. Luckily enough he’d forgotten to mention ‘how’ exactly Arthur would have to sit and thus here he lied in awkward angles on the chair, legs propped against the wall and his head dangling upside down, glaring at Eames.

“You honestly believe he doesn’t feel insulted enough to take vengeance?” Arthur asked, ignoring how his tummy grumbled. It was already three in the afternoon, he’d been on the chair for six hours, no food.

“This isn’t bloody high-school, Arthur. It’s alright, trust me.” As much as the kid wanted to believe him, in the back of his mind he still feared for Saito to be a well-developed villain, waiting for his time to strike.

“And sit upright, you’ll pass out like that.” Eames frowned, waving a pencil around before turning back to his papers.

“Fine.” Arthur huffed, pulling himself up and sitting more decently on the chair, though he still chose to have his back turned to the wall rather than the rest of the chair. He propped his arm on the backrest and then rested his cheek on it.

“What if he kills you?” Arthur asked and frowned when Eames chose to not answer.

“What if he kills you and there’s no one to protect me?” He hooked his ankles, his eyes never leaving Eames’ face but he couldn’t read a single expression from it, though he was certain the Brit was listening to him or at least hearing him.

“What if he kills me?” He imagined the possibilities for a second, fearful of Saito still being in the picture. He frankly didn’t believe a simple ‘no’ would keep him away… Then again it was normal for him to fear this unknown man, whereas Eames has known him for many years.  
He should trust the Brit’s judgement, but then… all things put aside, Eames himself also was an enemy, right?

He couldn’t forget that.

Just because he put a roof over his head, gave him food and chose not to physically abuse him, didn’t mean he was a good guy, right?

“Would you even care if he’d kill me?” The boy asked, teenage limbs once more sprawling about. Eames’ jaw tensed for a split second and to Arthur it was the first sign of victory for getting under the man’s skin.

“You wouldn’t, would you?” He continued, resting his cheek more heavily on his arm as his body slumped into the chair.

“Who cares if an American kid dies? We’re the enemy, after all. We are not people, we’re just the nemesis. Just a burden to overcome for opening the door that leads to England’s victory.” Eames looked up then, his gaze glaring, pupils widened (obvious even from the across-the-room distance).

“Would you get a new pet?”

“Arthur…” Eames warned.

“Would it be another American? Another ‘Yank’ to make it easier for you to look in the mirror each day and forgive yourself for the acts you commit and the believes you have chosen to feign?”

“I never wanted a pet.”

“Yet you got one!”

“I had no choice.”

“You could’ve taken anyone!”

“I had no choice.”

“There’s always a choice!” Eames frowned at that and Arthur now noticed that he’d gotten up from his chair, his fingers folded into tight fists and his knees trembled under his tense weight.

“I had no choice, Arthur.” Eames spoke calmly, the furrow in his brow resembling more worry than it did anger.

“Even if I had… I do not regret having met you.” Arthur didn’t know what he was supposed to believe that meant and instead he sat back down after a snap of Eames’ fingers.

The rest of the evening continued in silence. Arthur’s ass got numb plenty of times and Eames didn’t say another word to him, he only worked and smoked, worked and smoked. His eyes only focused on his work.

Arthur wondered several times about who Eames was. How he was and what he felt, what he thought, what he saw and pondered.

As always the boy’s head mangled itself to a tiny death in the form of a migraine over which truths to believe.

Hope and rationality lied miles apart.

And though he craved desperately to embrace the hopes, he only feared and accepted current reality and rationality. Not a single bright future in sight.


	33. You and I Just Smile Because We're Thinking the Same Line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven't re-read this chapter yet, but felt like posting it to make up for the delays.  
> I'll re-read it sometime this week and take care of any possible mistakes.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Chapter 33**

_You and I Just Smile Because We’re Thinking the Same Line_

  * _August, 2051 (3 months later)_



The first thing that struck Eames when he returned home from his five-day mission in Glasgow with Saito, was how it smelled of Arthur.

The moment he walked through the last metal door, leading to the final hallways of his underground liar, Arthur’s sweet scent nestled itself into his nostrils. The last couple of days without the kid had been much harder on him than he’d expected them to be. One of the negative aspects being that he’d forgotten the boy’s scent and even a bit of his voice.

It struck him as odd that he was able to forget such important details in just five days after having lived with the kid for eight months now. But then the mission had drained him, had asked everything of him and he noticed by the end that even Saito had looked worn out.   
And that was saying something.

The tasks they had to perform in Scotland had little to do with the war,  but had been more about politics and basically attend to important meetings with Scotland’s tiny independent government. For all that Ireland had kissed Saito’s arse the moment England had attacked the States, the Scots had kept their distance and remained suspicious.

Long story short, the five days had been tedious happenings of beating around the bush and treading on eggshells. Eames felt mentally drained and had found himself craving Arthur’s presence at night time when he had time to unwind but never managed because of the boy’s absence.

It wasn’t persé scary how he seemed to have grown very attached to Arthur. It was just… quite unexpected.

Coming home and being welcomed by the boy’s particularly unique scent, made Eames’ shoulders relax and his pace grow more urgent.

The Brit chewed on his lower-lip as if he was hungry for whatever smelled this good (and most likely he was) and it took him a total of thirty seconds to arrive at his bedroom door; the room in which Arthur had been kept for the past five days, though Eames had trusted Jean-Pierre to allow Arthur out of the bedroom if he found it necessary.  
With the bathroom attached and food being brought twice a day, Arthur shouldn’t have an urge to leave… But then he knew the boy adored Eames’ office for its tiny library-corner as well as Arthur needed to stretch his legs and just strut around a bit to get rid of his adolescent energy.

Soldiers were no longer needed to guard Eames’ bedroom door, but rather stood farther down the hallway, one of them keeping an eye on his office which he only trusted Jean-Pierre with the key of.

Eames unlocked his bedroom door quietly. It was already two in the morning, Arthur most likely was sound asleep.

The moment he opened the door ajar and peeked inside, Eames could feel his tummy drop, only to jump back up and bump into his heart. The latter fluttered almost dangerously as he took in the sight of his darling boy.

It was only then, seeing the long-limbed teenager sprawled on his messy bed, his hair tousled rebelliously and his lips pursed around the cylinder butt of a fag, that Eames realized just how fucking much he’d missed the boy.

Another two seconds later and Eames stirred at the realization that Arthur was actually smoking.

He would’ve scowled him were it not that the boy’s humming distracted him.  
Arthur had his eyes closed, lying flat on his bed with his legs spread out wide. He was dressed in an off-white shirt which was at least two sizes too large, and even the pair of jeans were a bit too baggy.  
It made him look all the more comfortable though and Eames knew without a doubt that he’d taken a shower not longer than two hours ago.

The Brit perked his ears, listening to the song the boy was humming. It sounded not sad, but more so melancholic and vaguely familiar though Eames at that time couldn’t quite place it just yet.

He walked farther inside, closing the door behind him quietly. The dimmed light of the night-lamp created a golden-ish glow on Arthur’s skin and Eames had to pause in his tracks when the boy moved to tap the ashes from the cigarette in the ashtray that rested on his tummy.

He didn’t notice Eames in his peripheral vision and just continued to hum the song, letting his head drop back on the mattress and his eyes flutter close.

Eames grinned broadly, peeling off his coat and hanging it behind the door before toeing off his shoes. His movements were slow and careful, enjoying the one-sided intimacy of the environment.

Arthur coughed a bit when taking another drag and Eames watched, endeared, as Arthur smacked his lips with a disgruntled face and scrunched up nose, before he tapped the fag above the ashtray.

As the boy continued to hum the melancholic tune, Eames took advantage of the ambient sounds and walked to his desk, seating himself behind it and crossing ankle over knee. Leaning back in his seat, the Colonel’s eyes ‘zoomed in’ –as you will- on the kid on his bed, in particular the kid’s lips.

The heath that nestled itself in the man’s tummy when watching Arthur’s bright-pink lips wrapped around the thin butt of the cigarette, was of downright inappropriate nature.  
Let’s be frank, Eames was in no denial –not anymore- about the layers that piled his adoration and infatuation for his pet. The base of which was more fatherly than the cherry on top, which on its own only carried the carnal lust that had been lurking in the Brit’s tummy ever since setting eyes on the boy.

Eames wasn’t one to fool around, either. It wasn’t to be expected of him to just pick up a woman or man and roll around between the sheets with them for a night, earning him a soothed libido in the mornings.

In contrary he rather despised meaningless shags and would rather rub one off every other hour than have a go with some bird or bloke.

That being said, he was only human and as most of them, he had basic needs such as food, sleep, shelter and a good fuck.

It didn’t help that Arthur seemed to have grown over the past week. It was impossible, Eames knew as much, but the illusion of an aging Arthur smoking the Colonel’s damn-expensive cigarettes made his blood boil with more than anger alone.

The adolescent still had no clue of Eames’ presence and the Brit watched him smoke the fag with half-lid eyes, humming and wiggling his toes every now and then as he stared at the grey ashes building up above the white paper.

It was only when Arthur had finished his cigarette and proceeded to close his eyes and drift off, that Eames snapped out of his voyeuristic observations and was witness of the hint of a tent having appeared in his own trousers.  
He decided tonight wasn’t the time to figure out what exactly had set off his arousal. Whether it had been Arthur’s lips pursed around the fag, or the way his small Adam’s Apple strained when tipping back his head a bit –which on its turn revealed a lovely sharp jawline- or maybe it had been the elegant bone-structure in his wrist, hand and fingers as they brought the cigarette to him.  
  
And then again it could be just his intoxicating scent and the promise of warmth that his skin seemed to glow. As well could it be that Eames just needed to sleep it all off and get a bloody hold of himself.  
Because, Colonel or not, he shouldn’t be this easily impressed and turned on seeing his pet lying on his bed, sprawled out invitingly, his body and quirky mind full of innuendo-layered temptation.

Eames squeezed the bulge in his trousers, easing the pressure before getting up from his seat quietly. Arthur seemed to have drifted off for a great part, his breathing slow and loud, his mouth agape. The Brit couldn’t help but smile widely at the sight.

The Brit squatted down next to the bed after he’d walked towards it. He took the opportunity to watch the boy’s every nook and crook. From the distance of barely a few inches in between their faces, Eames could make out the pores in Arthur’s skin and the faint blush on his cheeks. Arthur was a pale boy resulting that whenever it was a bit warm around or if he’d get upset, he’d fluster immediately.  
Eames was particularly fond of his out-sticking ears which were the first to colour red even before his high-cheekboned cheeks.

“Arthur.” Eames whispered, smirking around the exaggerated English accent he knew Arthur despised so much. The boy only frowned in his sleep but his breathing stayed even.  
It amazed Eames how easily the kid would fall asleep. It was adorably just-so for boys his age. The sleep-depraved Brit envied this trait.

“Arthu~r.” Eames dragged out the last syllable, making sure to breath out onto the shell of the kid’s ear. The Colonel refused to think of this as a perverted method.

This time he mumbled something incoherent, his hand rising up and swatting around, nearly hitting Eames in the face. The Brit snorted, his chest expanding lovingly and a wave of happiness washing over him because ‘he was home’ and ‘Arthur was here’ and more specifically ‘Arthur was sleeping in his bed, in his scent, his territory’.

Without thinking about it, the Brit closed his eyes and leaned closer to the boy, inhaling deeply, smiling and clenching his jaw at the ache which accompanied the infatuation for his pet.  
He desired the young man in ways he really wish he didn’t.

When opening his eyes, Eames’ breath hitched because Arthur was looking straight at him. His eyes were half-mast, puffy with sleepiness and Eames didn’t dare move as the boy turned to lie on his side and face him fully.

“Hey.” The Yank whispered, sight flickering over Eames’ face before the left-corner of his mouth quirked up in a lazy almost-smile. Seeing the hint of a dimple shadow the boy’s cheek, was the best home-coming present he could think off at that moment.

“Hey.” Eames replied, his voice as hushed as Arthur’s, though he wasn’t sure why they were whispering… it seemed suitable for their close proximity. The scent and heat of his breath fanning out over Eames’ face made the Brit’s earlier arousal twitch back to attention.

“You’re back.” The boy cracked and Eames’ smile only widened when he could smell the tobacco on his words.

“Yeah, I am.”

When Arthur moved in, Eames froze into place. He sat, on the back of his heels, his elbows dug awkwardly into the mattress as the Yank just scooted closer, eyes half-lid.

There was a split second where Eames’ heart skipped several beats and his mind screamed Arthur was going to kiss him and that he should pull away right the fuck now! But he couldn’t move, wouldn’t even if he could’ve and he just awaited Arthur’s initiative.

Time seemed to process that much slower in his brain from the moment Arthur’s eyes lowered to gaze at his lips up until the split second when their noses bumped.  
What happened next passed all the faster and Eames was left embarrassingly out of breath when Arthur nuzzled below his chin, breathing on his throat and having wrapped a heavy arm around the Brit’s neck.

“Welcome home, Eames.” The boy whispered into the crook of his neck and Eames felt those lips move over his skin as they wrapped loosely around the spoken words. They felt unbearably soft and he could believe now that if Arthur had actually went to kiss him, he’d slipped into a coma on the spot when feeling that mouth on his’.

Because…

Let’s be frank, Eames was in no denial –not anymore- about the layers that piled his adoration and infatuation for his pet. The base of which was more fatherly than the cherry on top, which on its own only carried the carnal lust that had been lurking in the Brit’s tummy ever since setting eyes on the boy.

Eames was not in denial.

Not anymore.


	34. Is it Really so Strange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: some physical abuse

  
**Chapter 34**   
_Is it Really so Strange_   


 

“How many times now?”

“Five, maybe six… It’s hard to tell because I’ve missed the first six months Joe has been in the Colonel’s presence.”

“So that’s his real name then? Joe?”

“His name is as real as his British nationality.”

“Much as yours.”

“You only notice the lilt in my feigned English accent because you know about my American background, Mr Saito. That being said, Dom Cobb _is_ my true name.” Saito quirked a brow at that, allowing a grim smile to cross his lips before his face fell back into concentration and ponder.

“And I only allow you to remain, American or not, because I find use in your existence. Keep that in mind, Cobb.”

“Yes, Sir.” The blond man next to him nodded, his tanned skin had aged greatly after his hideout in the Caribbean for the past five years. The colour of his skin seemed to have darkened permanently, only being gruesome to the crow’s feet and lines around his mouth, aging it with darkness.

Time, unlike with Eames, had not been kind to Dom who was barely three years older than the Colonel. The latter also lacked the crazy look in his eyes that this blond (once-considered-an) Adonis possessed. And Saito wasn’t even mentioning the state of the man’s wrinkly suit and askew tie, nor the way Dom would stroke a strand of hair behind his ear several times a minute even when his hair would be where he’d left it the first time.

Saito grimaced, knowing darn well that ever since the death of his wife and thus the blown cover of his non-American nationality, Dominic Cobb had pretty much lost control of not only his life, but his mind.

Putting all that aside, Dom was great in what he did. His insanity only seemed to compliment his talents and insight and for the sake of infiltration with his own men… Dom was the guy Saito needed.

The American had no sense of pride, no sense of right and wrong, let alone any believe in his honour. Dom found no problem working for the enemy as long as Saito-the-enemy waved a bundle of cash in front of his face, allowing those big blue eyes to follow the bills hungrily.

“So five, maybe six times they’ve done this before?” Saito asked, frowning as he watched his right-hand sneak an arm around his pet’s waist only to have it swatted away the second after. Eames was laughing though, raising both hands in the air apologetically and even from this distance, Saito could see the blush creeping on the pet’s face.

This was obviously not a master-pet dynamic… not to mention they were bloody outside. OUTSIDE.

Eames, the Colonel, had taken his filthy Yank pet on a three-AM outside tour through the maze of London’s little alleyways. And apparently they’d done so before, so Dom said.

“I want you to keep an eye on them whenever they tread outside. Also do I want you to infiltrate on Eames’ agenda. Find out when he’s gone from the pet and let me know when he’ll get back. I want to know about every step they take, justified or not.” Saito spoke in clipped tones, making sure his face was blank before turning back to face Dom who stood a couple of feet away from him, leaning against a doorpost. He was smoking, a habit he’d picked up next to drinking after his wife’s death.

The thought that love could change a man to such a degree was rather overwhelming if not pathetic.

Saito would be damned to allow this filthy Yank of a pet to weaken Eames up to the point where the man would lose himself and do something outrageous such as turning his back on Saito and England.  
That would happen… The Japanese man was absolutely sure of that.  
He’d seen the near-crazy look in the Brit’s eyes when he’d request his pet from him. He’d seen the lack of humour in his normally relaxed-and-amused face. Saito knew that at this point ‘Joe’ was worth as much to Eames as Saito was… if not more.

He couldn’t have his Colonel, his right-hand, one of his best men, a boy he’d taken under his wing and raised as his own blood, weakened and forced into delusion because of the irrational sense of infatuation which people had gone to call ‘love’.

Dom clacked his tongue in agreement and then left as quietly as he’d come and Saito was left alone to spite on the sight of Eames and the pet, seated on one of Trafalgar Square’s fountains. ‘Joe’s head had dipped itself on the man’s shoulder and Saito couldn’t hear what they were talking about not only because of the wind whistling around his ears, but as well because of the carnal grinding of his teeth.

* * *

 

 

_Two weeks later._

Saito had assumed that Jean-Pierre would prove to be a hurdle a tad too high.

Instead of having him assassinated though, the Japanese man had decided to threaten him instead. After all, his death could seem a bit suspicious to Eames.

All he needed to say was the address of Jean-Pierre’s parents in Paris. The man’s face grew more pale than it already was and knowing it had been a warning, he then finally stepped aside and allowed Saito to enter Eames’ ‘home’.

Not a man would ever be proud enough to defend his Colonel rather than his own flesh and blood.

Now, what truly did make Saito’s night was the expression on Joe’s face the moment he realized Saito was in his presence and Eames was at least two cities away.

The man closed the bedroom door behind him and locked it with the key he found in the hole. He dropped the key in the pocket of his trousers right after, watching Joe who’s eyes followed the movement of Saito patting the pocket, securing the presence of the key in there.

He noticed the boy’s gaze flickering to the door that he knew led to an adjoined bathroom. Any thought of escape quickly vanished because Saito chose to drop his pistol loudly on the cabin next to him, the metal clattered aggressively on the wooden surface.

“Not tied up even though your master is gone for several days?” Saito asked, pleased –if not annoyed- that the boy was bright enough not to answer the rhetorical question.

He peeled off his leather gloves slowly as he walked around the room. Quirking a brow when Joe glanced at the gun he’d left several feet away from the both of them.  
The _loaded_ pistol rested securely in the holster he was wearing underneath the jacket of his grey suit. He wasn’t stupid enough to leave a loaded gun for Joe to grab. The boy seemed crazy enough to go for it.

“Did your master ever tell you what to do in unforeseen circumstances such as this one?” Saito asked, tucking his gloves away in the inner-pocket of his jacket, revealing his holster by the movement and causing Joe to sit back down fully on the edge of the bed.

“I advise you to start answering me now before I slap the words out of you. After all, by now, I know you can talk as well as I know Joe is not your real name and that you’re a full-blood American.” Joe only clenched his jaws, his back straightening almost comically much.

When Saito sit down on Eames’ chair behind the desk, he noticed something flaring across the boy’s face. It seemed like a fit of rage being supressed immediately and Saito found it unusually interesting to see this pet upset over Saito disrespecting his master… After all, he’d kind of assumed Joe wasn’t an ordinary pet, quite disliked Eames or at least feigned his respect for the Brit.

“Did Mr Eames advice you not to speak? That’s very silly of him…” Saito crossed his legs and leaned back in his seat, observing the boy across from him.

Joe was a piece of art, no doubt about it. He was stunningly beautiful, his features sharp and odd, making his beauty all the more special and desired.  
His skin was smooth and pale and his eyes and hair dark as the night. Even through his baggy clothes, Saito was certain the boy’s body was gorgeously slim, with protruding ribs and ever-so-slightly curved hips.

Saito wanted Joe.  
Wanted to possess him only to break that filthy Yank-pride and watch him dip his head instead of the raised-chin and arrogant-glare he carried at that moment.

The man didn’t remember him ever hating and desiring a person as much as he did Joe.

“Come here.” Saito spoke, watching the boy’s eyes narrow only slightly. As suspected, he didn’t move a muscle.

The Japanese man sighed blatantly, withdrawing his gun and swaying it around carelessly in circular motions.

“Come here, Yank.” It took several seconds of pointing the gun towards the kid and cocking the safety once, before Joe finally rose from the bed slowly.

Joe walked towards him quietly, the pads of his feet unheard as they paced over the wooden floorboards. Saito was appalled that Eames had left on the radiator for the whole three days he’d be gone, just to keep his pet warm and enable him to walk around barefooted.

“Closer.” Saito barked when the Yank stopped walking as he’d reached the other side of the desk. His face when pacing around the furniture, revealed little to nothing. There was not a sign of nervousness and Saito found it hard to believe that a teenager would be this talented in hiding emotions.  
But then, it was even more unbelievable to think Joe wasn’t nervous at all. It seemed impossible if it were not for the obvious rage in his eyes, flared nostrils and clenched jaws… his anger most likely took care of his nerves.

Saito rested the pistol on the desk but kept his hand on it as he turned in the chair to face the boy who now only stood a foot away from him, towering over the Japanese leader, his chin risen cockily.

“If you don’t look down right now I will slap you.” Saito growled when Joe wouldn’t lower his gaze as their eyes locked.  
Of course the boy didn’t obey and Saito was pleased to hear him gasp when he leaned up and smacked him across the face with the back of his hand. Joe stumbled a bit and his fingers twitched momentarily as if holding back the urge to stroke his burning cheek which already coloured red around the white imprint of Saito’s fingers.

“Sit.” Joe only took a deep breath, his body shivered a bit but he kept staring at Saito.

“SIT!” Saito barked again, optioning to pull the boy down onto his lap only to have it result in a short wrestling match on the chair. Saito though, was several heads taller than Joe, and many inches wider, it took little to not effort to get the upper-hand.

With his arm hooked around the boy’s throat, his back curved against the man’s chest and Saito leaned towards Joe to whisper into his ear.

“This all will be over much sooner if you just obey. I only want to talk. Only talk, Yank. Nothing else IF you’re good.” He took a moment to regain self-control, the presence of the warm body on his lap not going by unnoticed by his libido.

“If you’re bad though… I promise I will hurt you in every sense of the word.” Saito tightened his arm as a warning until the boy coughed. When he loosened his grip to allow Joe to breathe, the boy made the mistake to go for the gun on the desk besides them and before the kid realized, Saito had him thrown on the floor with his knee pressed in the kid’s guts and a hand around his throat, pistol pointed to his forehead.

“You’re a very stupid pet. Very stupid! It is obviously rubbing off on your master and I can’t have that.” Saito hissed, surprised and disgusted at the rebelliousness of this Yank. Eames obviously had done a horrible job taming him.

“It is not my intention to kill you.” Saito continued, the contrast of his words harsh with his fingers which tightened their grip around the boy’s throat to the point where Joe started to wheeze and flatten out his tongue as he tried to pant for air.  
His face tinted red within seconds and the glare in his eyes swapped placed for a misplaced frown.

“You see, that would ruin all that I have with the Colonel.” Joe coughed, or tried to, but Saito only tightened his grip, keeping a careful eye on the boy’s face.  
Joe finally lost some sense of pride and he brought up his hands to take a hold of Saito’s wrist.

“I do care for Eames. I raised him like a son and it is very-“ He squeezed harder.

“fucking-“ Saito pressed the boy against the floorboards harder and found sickening pleasure in how Joe began to squeak and thrash.

“annoying to see him crumble underneath your presence.” He released the kid then, pulling back and getting up, watching the kid sputter and heave at his feet as he tried desperately to get up from the floor but the lack of oxygen made him too dizzy to do so.

“I want you to back off.” Saito said, pressing the toe of his shoe against the boy’s hip to flip him back on his back. Joe allowed it, too out of breath to fight.

“You are weakening Eames. You are making him grow delusional. You are causing him to rebel against his Lord, against his army, his roots and his country.” Joe stopped moving and held his breath when Saito planted a foot on his chest as he tucked his pistol back in the holster.

“You are this man’s poison and I won’t allow that. This is a warning, Joe. I will murder you and let it shine out as a suicide if you continue weakening Eames and enabling him to turn his back to all he’s ever fought for.” Saito whispered, forcing Joe to keep still in order to hear his words.

When he placed the sole of his shoe over the kid’s lips, he continued.

“You will find an excuse for the marks I’ve left on you. You will no longer allow Eames to be fond of you. I will not allow you to steal Eames away from me and his country. I will not allow you to fuck with England’s military.” Joe’s eyes were wide and for a moment Saito feared the kid had no clue of his power over Eames and thus England’s army which was being led by said master.

But there was no chance Joe didn’t know this yet.  
The kid was more bright than he let out to be. Eames was daft for this boy. Eames was blinded by his infatuation for this Yank. He didn’t see how this piece of shit was playing him for his own benefit.

Saito needed to put an end to this.  
  
Saito needed for his Colonel to be clear-minded again.  
The best solution would be to get rid of Joe, but as much as Eames was blind for the boy, he’d figure out in no time that Saito had something to do with it.  
The Japanese man knew he couldn’t hurt Joe, not truly for this would screw him over and would lead Eames into vengeance.

Love was a disgusting thing… Very much so.

Saito left, leaving Joe on the floor and trusting that the Yank was bright enough to know what to do.  
He’d received the message loud and clear and all the Japanese man could now do was await the effect to take place and clear Eames’ head once more.  
  
Bring back the strong-headed, proud Colonel of England and lead their country to victory over the rotten bodies of their citizens, British or not.


	35. You Made Me Feel Less Alone. You Made Me Feel Not Quite So.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: wee bit of violence/misplaced aggression, Dom/sub.

**Chapter 35**

_You Made Me Feel Less Alone, You Made Me Feel Not Quite so_

It took another day before Eames returned and Arthur’s heart felt as if it wanted to burst when he lied eyes on the man who’d failed to protect him merely 36 hours ago.

Instead of rage, though, he only felt grateful for seeing the Brit again and thus he hugged him before he’d even taken off his visor hat or coat.  
His clothes were still cold from outside, but Arthur didn’t mind. He just breathed the apple-ish scent of his ‘kidnapper’ and listened to his voice hushing him softly.

“Ello there, Pet. Missed me, yeah?” Eames asked, some amusement in his voice, trying to layer and hide the worry Arthur clearly noticed. It wasn’t his intention to worry the Brit… he merely needed a hug, he needed to be soothed and comforted but not to a degree where Eames would grow suspicious.

Arthur most certainly didn’t desire for him to find out about Saito because then what would happen? He himself would die, no doubt about it… but then what would happen to Eames? Would Eames be killed as well?

The boy frowned, not supposed to be worried about this Englishman, and he pulled back away when Eames stroked a hand over his head, fingers knotting in his hair. It made the Colonel tut, after all the only demands given whenever he left for a couple of days were that Arthur was to look after himself, hygiene-wise, health-wise as well as emotional-wise.

After swatting the man’s hand, Arthur turned and flopped down on Eames’ bed, making sure to pull up his shoulders a bit as he hugged a pillow.

You see…. Arthur’s throat was bruised. Badly. The boy couldn’t think of a possible excuse to explain the presence of the finger-shaped patches of dark-pink, yellow and blue. And thus he just went for trying to not have Eames see them.

It wouldn’t take that long to heal, right? Couple of days maybe? Arthur could do that, he could be subtle about it and avoid Eames’ presence a bit, avoid the man ogling his throat.

The American stirred when Eames proceeded to walk passed the bed, dragging a broad hand up the plane of his shoulders before stroking him on the head.

“Good boy, Arthur. I’m going to take a shower, we’ll have some fruits afterwards.” Arthur nodded, glancing at the Brit’s back as he disappeared into the adjoined bathroom.  
As much as Arthur was excited to have fruits later on, he was very much more worried about Eames seeing his bruises.  
Perhaps he should kill the lights? Have them seated in darkness or the dim light of candles? Wearing a scarf would be too suspicious… unless he’d cough a bit and tell Eames he was having a cold.

Twenty minutes later and Arthur was still thinking about what to do as Eames walked out the steamy bathroom, dressed in sweatpants and a worn-looking white T-shirt. Arthur tried not to focus too much on the contrast between Eames’ tad-tanned skin and the off-white tint of the fabric, nor did he revel in the swell of the man’s ass underneath the waistband of the grey pants.

Arthur had wondered before where Eames got the golden glow in his skin from and same went for those plump lips and long eyelashes. The boy wouldn’t be surprised were Eames to be at least one-fourth Spanish or perhaps even Mexican.  
The mental image of the man in sombrero and carrying a massive black moustache made Arthur snort out loud.

“What’re you laughing about, then?” Eames asked with a teasing smile and seeing the man’s relaxed body and soft eyes allowed Arthur to feel a bit more at ease as well.

“Moustaches.” Arthur replied vaguely and watched the Brit rub his stubble with a questioning frown before he went to sit behind his desk and stretch his legs out in front of him, ankles crossed.

“Come sit on my lap, Arthur.” The boy rolled his eyes at that. It wasn’t that unusual for Eames to ask. Arthur had been living with him for nearly nine months now. The hatred, the panic, the suspicions he’d felt in the beginning had all faded rather dramatically.  
He’d sat on his lap various times now. It used to have been a method of punishment because it used to embarrass Arthur… but then the boy started to enjoy sitting on Eames’ lap because it meant feeling Eames’ warmth and smelling his soothing scent and then inevitably it’d led to hugs and… well… Arthur liked hugs. Had come to like them in the end.

Tonight though, it was different, for Arthur had bruises to hide. He couldn’t have Eames find out about Saito’s visit. He had no idea what would happen… What if Eames would be upset at Arthur? After all he was merely his pet, whereas Saito was his leader.  
Perhaps Eames would even believe Arthur was in fault here… The boy gulped and embraced his ( _Eames’_ ) pillow more closely to his chest, spooning it and peeking over its edge towards the Colonel.

“Come on then.” Eames urged on, mischief in his eyes as he waved a hand, beckoning him over. His body looked alluring, freshly bathed, soft and warm… He looked fucking comfortable and Arthur clenched his jaws in frustration. He despised how he enjoyed ‘cuddle-time’ with this son of a Brit.

“I’m too tired.” Arthur mumbled.

“No you’re not, your eyes are wide and your attention is focused. Come on, Pet, I had to miss your delightful presence for three whole days… Don’t tell me you haven’t missed your Eamesie?” He was downright grinning now.

“Don’t say things like that, idiot.” Arthur growled, blushing and hiding his face behind the pillow.

“What? ‘Eamesie’ or that I missed you?”

“Both. Leave me alone.” The boy proceeded to just bury his face in the pillow, shutting the man out by not looking at him anymore. Silence followed and when Arthur grew suspicious after about ten long seconds, it already was too late.

“Don’t!” Arthur shrieked as Eames hauled him up with hands hooked under his arms as if he weighed absolutely nothing.

“Arthur, Arthur, have you still not learned to obey me, hm?” Eames’ voice was light, lacked any form of aggression and anger.

“I don’t know the difference between your atrocious sense of sarcasm and your gruesome trait of dominance.” Arthur pouted mid-air, not even trying to escape as the Brit carried him back to his desk, just allowing his body to slump over the man’s arm as he clung him to his chest.  
Besides, the kid was too busy trying to figure out how best to hide the bruises on his neck once he was on the man’s lap.

“There’s just some things I never joke about, my Dear, such as your affection.”

“MY affection?” Arthur shrieked, still trying to deny any kindness from his side even though they’d been rather close from time to time… physically as well as emotionally.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed those skinny arms of your wrapping themselves around me when we’ve been having a cuddle for ten minutes.”

“My arms are not skinny.” Arthur whispered, offended, but as well distracted when Eames sat down on his chair and manhandled him on his lap until he sat with both of his legs thrown over Eames’ left thigh. A strong arm cradled itself around the boy’s shoulders and Arthur immediately buried his face in the crook of the man’s neck.  
  
Eames stirred, most likely taken aback by the sudden embrace from his pet. But Arthur pulled him closer, so close that he couldn’t notice the bruises on his throat.

“Seems like you _have_ missed me after all.” The Brit whispered thickly, dipping his nose in the boy’s shoulder and Arthur heard him inhale. He could feel him taking him in, his arms tightening and his chest expanding. Were Arthur to not have been worried about the bruises… he could’ve lost himself in the intensity of Eames’ embrace.

They didn’t talk for many minutes, just hugging and breathing together and Arthur felt a pinch in the back of his nose. Something prickled there as well as behind his eyes and he had to swallow a couple of times to get rid of the lump in his throat.

Feeling Eames, hearing him, seeing him, smelling him… it finally allowed him to give up. Arthur could finally let go of his fear for Saito’s return, he could finally just close his eyes and doze off in the man’s arms… knowing that Eames would protect him as far as he didn’t find out about anything.

It was only now, in the confines of the Brit’s arms that he realized what Saito could’ve done to him had he chosen to… He’d gotten off easy…

“I have.” Arthur finally replied and he could feel Eames smile against his shoulder.

“I don’t like it when you’re gone.” He continued, fearing the next time Eames would have to go on a mission and allow Saito to pay him a visit once more.  
Arthur wasn’t stupid. He knew the crazy look in a man’s eyes when he saw scarcely dressed ladies on street corners and even more so wasn’t thick enough to not understand what the hardness in a guy’s pants meant.  
And he’d felt that.

Saito had been hard, mid-wrestling him, mid-abusing him.  
He’d been hard and his pupils had been dilated. If it hadn’t been for Eames… if Eames had been out of the picture completely… he would’ve taken Arthur, and the boy knew this so certainly that he couldn’t hold back the stuttering breath he took as he hugged Eames even closer to him.

“Darling.” The man whispered, obviously affected by Arthur’s clinginess.

“Can we go to bed… please?” Arthur asked and the Brit almost immediately whispered a ‘yeah’.

He told himself he wanted to go to bed because then they’d be asleep and his bruises could heal and they’d be gone in the morning and he could go back to his witty, I-don’t-like-you-Eames self again.

But Arthur wasn’t a stupid boy, unfortunately enough for his conscience.  
He knew he’d missed Eames, knew he’d been scared and still was.

Also, he realized, painfully much so, that Eames was the only thing standing in between him and a grim future. Freedom put aside, being with Eames was his best option.  
Having Eames being fond of him, was his best bet to survive in this world.

And either way, were it for his own safety or the fact that he genuinely enjoyed this man’s presence in his life, Arthur just wanted to sleep now.

 

In his arms.  
Protected and taken care of, such as Eames had promised him from the very beginning.

* * *

 

 

Arthur woke up early.

It took him a bit longer than desired to escape from Eames’ deadweight arm which he’d thrown around the boy’s waist during the night, either way, ten minutes later he was in the bathroom inspecting the bruises on his throat in the rusty-cracked mirror above the sink.

They looked even worse than before.

“Fuck.”

The adolescent decided to think it over in the shower. There should be a way to hide the bruises, he just… he just needed to think it over.

It wasn’t until the slam of a door being shut, that Arthur woke from his daydreaming under the spray of warm water. He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there, at least he’d gotten to soaping himself, but he hadn’t thought about Eames waking up and walking in on him.  
  
The fact that Eames had just thrown the door shut and now stood next to the bathtub staring at him… most likely wasn’t a good sign.

“E-Eames?” Arthur squawked, considering to cover himself up but not daring to move a muscle with the Brit staring at him, dark-eyed, clenched jaws and a quivering toothpick between his lips. His hair stuck out wildly, his semi-permanent cow-lick resembling a devil’s horn and his eyes and nose were a bit puffy around the edges.

Arthur would’ve considered him to look adorable, scruff and all, were it not for the fact that the look on his face seemed as if he was ready to kill the boy.

“What’s this then?” Eames growled, his voice barely overpowered the spray of water. Arthur felt his blood run cold when he noticed the man glancing at his throat.

“T-this?” Arthur stuttered, starting to reach up a hand to lie on his neck but Eames interrupted him with a barked ‘ _No!_ ’.

“It’s nothing, don’t mention it.” Arthur nervously replied, his eyes wide and his heart thumping wildly. Eames looked absolutely pissed off. Would this be how the boy would die? By the hands of his… saviour?

Would Eames just smash his head against the tiled wall, cussing him and murdering him because he’d gotten into a fight with Saito?  
How much did he know in the first place?

“Turn off the water.” The Brit said instead, tilting his head sideways only a little bit, his eyes widening before they narrowed once more.

Arthur quickly fumbled with the faucets and turned off the spray even though his body and hair were still covered in a great amount of foamy soap. He never dared look away from the Brit.

“Who?”

“Who what?” Arthur countered immediately more out of nervousness rather than rebellion. Eames’ eyes seemed to flicker, as if he wanted to close them but quite couldn’t. His bottom-lip got sucked between his teeth as he nudged his lower-jaw forward, his chin creasing a bit in the centre.  
It was an expression Arthur had seen hints off in the beginning. It was the man’s rage-face. He was pissed off, to a royal amount and all the boy could do was hold his breath and stay still.  
He felt cornered, like a mouse experiencing a face-off with a cat. One move and he’d be dead bait.

“How?” Eames asked, breathing out through his flared nostrils and his grey eyes seemed to grow even darker.

“I fell.”

“You fell?” His voice was too soft, his pauses too long and Arthur could feel his back starting to cramp because he’d been standing in a half-turned position for too long now. Not a hair on his head did consider to move, though.

“Yeah, in the shower.” The man rose his left eyebrow at that and rolled the toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other, his head tilted sideways more.

“Fell with my neck on the edge of the tub.” Arthur knew it was the most horrible lie he’d ever told but he prayed dearly that Eames would believe him. They’d cuddled and literally slept together last night… Eames was a kind man! Right? He should believe him.  
This was just some fucked up morning-mood-swing.

“Is that so?” Eames whispered. It didn’t sound like a question, only like a growl and Arthur allowed his cooled-down body to shiver when the Brit turned to dispose of his toothpick, flicking it into the sink behind him.

What followed happened in a flash. Arthur barely had time to gasp but yelped anyways when his back connected with the tiled wall behind him. The pain rocketed through his system shortly, sparking his brain to attention.  
  
Eames was on him like a shark that’d smelled blood.

As if having been shoved up against the wall wasn’t enough of a scare, Eames proceeded to grab a hold of Arthur’s throat, his thumb digging harshly below the boy’s chin, nudging his head up and arching his throat.

He was close. He could hear, feel and smell Eames’ breath on his face. Arthur could even feel the heat of the man’s body travelling through the few inches of space in between their bodies. His hand on his throat though, felt stingingly and unbearably hot.

Had the boy been brave enough to look down, he would’ve been impressed to see Eames was standing barefooted in the bathtub with him. He had stepped in it and shoved Arthur with much force against the wall, without so much as having slipped.  
Arthur wasn’t brave enough though, his eyes plastered on Eames’ face in wide-eyed confusion and shock.

He’d gotten so used to the calm and fun Eames over the past months that he’d forgotten about the madman that lingered inside of him.

“E-Eames I-“ Arthur’s words got broken off when the Brit grabbed his throat more tightly only to pull him away from the wall and smash him back into it.

“When are we allowed to speak, Arthur?” Eames asked and the boy had to gulp a few times. He didn’t hold his throat as tightly as Saito had, it was a mere warning, so far it didn’t seem like his plan was to choke him out.  
  
Either way, the boy was very confused and much so afraid as to why Eames was mad and what Eames was intending to do with said madness.

“When asked a question or demanded to, Sir.” Arthur answered, strained. It had been quite a while since the last time he’d been disciplined by Eames, let alone have the man make him speak out the rules.

The boy licked his lips nervously, only to wince at the taste of soap.

“Now, do you know what I hate even more than beating around the bush, Arthur?” The boy shook his head immediately, his fingers inevitably trying to dig themselves in the tiled wall behind him.

“Dishonesty.” The Colonel’s grey eyes flickered over Arthur’s face, down to his throat where his thumb now brushed gently in the hollow of the boys jaw under and behind the chin. The soap made the movement slick and easy, though the American didn’t doubt Eames could strangle him to death even if his hands were slippery.

“And you’re being rather dishonest, aren’t ya, Darling?”

“No Sir.” Arthur whispered, shivering now that the cold had caught up on him and his endorphins were starting to wear off.

“No?” Eames frowned almost amusingly hard as he pulled back his hand and started to gently wipe away the soap from Arthur’s throat. The boy stayed in place perfectly, head still tipped back against the wall, hands splayed behind him, his back straight and his eyes carefully avoiding Eames’. He was panting.

“Then tell me why, Pet…” Eames began, drying his hand on his sweatpants before wrapping his fingers around the boy’s throat once more. With soap and water swiped away, the heat of his hand was even more apparent… not to mention the grip and firmness.

“Tell me why my fingers match all of these bruises so perfectly, hm?” Arthur closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath as he felt Eames’ fingers gently loosen and tighten on his skin, shifting and stroking and most certainly matching every little yellow and blue patch.

“Why are you lying to me, Arthur?” He whispered now, his voice suddenly close to Arthur’s ear and the boy’s lids flickered open only to see that Eames had come closer. It was only a second later before the line of his body planted itself against the American’s.  
His clothes felt warm against his naked, wet skin and Arthur breathed out through his mouth slowly, trying to calm down the pounding of his heart.

“I want you to tell me what happened, Pet.” He continued and Arthur jumped when Eames lowered his hand to grab his throat at the base, his crooked pinkie finger caught somewhere underneath his collarbone.

“Please…” Arthur whispered, not sure what he was begging for until he felt the man’s lips brush over the pulsing vein he found on the side of his neck and then felt a muscular thigh nudging itself between his quivering legs.

“Please what, Arthur?”

“Please, Sir.” The boy tried, his brain was a foggy mess of fear and, and… warmth. Longing? Desire.  
  
 _Fuck._

“You are mine, Arthur.” Eames growled the words softly and when his teeth dug into the boy’s throat, the latter couldn’t help but outright moan and arch into his hard body.

“Now tell me what happened before it is too late.”

“I can’t tell you… Sir.”

“Why?” When Arthur didn’t reply, Eames only came closer if that was even possible. All the boy could feel were the hard and hot planes of the man’s body pressed against his’, all he could comprehend was the way he smelled and the way his voice rumbled deep within him. His brain focused only on the points they were touching, in particular the teeth that kept nibbling at his throat, the fingers wrapped around his neck, the hand that somehow had grabbed one of the his wrists –holding it against the wall- and then his thigh… Dear god, Eames’ thigh pressed so cruelly hard in between Arthur’s legs, against his groin, his arousal, his-

_Fuck._

“Arthur… you’re”

“Yeah.”

 

“You’re hard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't kill me please.


	36. How Dearly I'd Love to Get Carried Away

**  
**Warnings: physical violence

Check out my Still-Ill Christmas spinoff [here](../../1099412). It turned out to be quite an important chapter. It is in the future of this fic, I will make sure to refer to it again when the time-setting is right in this one. So if you'd rather read that in order, just wait for it.

Also I finally put a picture of one of my [Still Ill photosets](http://hardigan-miku.tumblr.com/tagged/stillill) to use in this fic.  
( _See end of page to see mentioned pic_ )

Enjoy!

* * *

 

  
**Chapter 36**   
_How Dearly I’d Love to Get Carried Away_   


 

_“Arthur… You’re-“_

_“Yeah.”_

_“You’re hard.”_

Eames watched the boy’s eyes flutter close before they opened widely.

“I-I’m not.” He stuttered, trying to move away from the wall only to result in Eames shoving him back against it. The Colonel was very certain Arthur moaned rather than grunted at the sheer force of it.

“Quiet.” Eames growled, flattening his hand on Arthur’s sternum and pressing him hard against the tiles behind him.

“Whether you’re aroused or not, isn’t the point here. What has triggered said arousal, as well, does not matter. You’re young, Arthur, a mere teenager pumped with endorphins and most likely quite the testosterone. Ill-timed erections are bound to happen.” Eames observed with a hint of amusement as Arthur cringed under his hand, a bright blush creeping to his cheeks.

Eames was proud of how unaffected he sounded, whereas in all honesty he felt his insides burning up just by the thought of this Yank having a boner because he was obviously feeling intimidated… Arthur got off on being dominated. Arthur got off on Eames.  
The Brit had always known, and if it weren’t for his current anger at the boy’s bruises, he would’ve smirked with the knowledge he’d read Arthur right from the start.

Self-control being one of the Brit’s traits, he found no difficulty containing himself in a shower with a naked bloke pinned against the wall, ready for him to use whether he’d like it or not, and thus he continued the ‘chit-chat’.

“Now, I will only need one answer.” Arthur’s brow-line creased and Eames shook him again, the back of his head thudding once against the wall behind him.

“You either answer me and I will leave you alone for the rest of the day, noting that there will be some punishment later tonight. Or-“ He paused then, grabbing the boy’s chin and tilting his head up, waiting until finally Arthur looked into his eyes. Eames leaned in closer, his grip pinching the boy’s skin and he revelled in the way Arthur DID recoil a wee bit.  
Their noses touched.

“-you don’t and I will punish you _physically_ , so hard that you’ll cry and beg me to stop. So hard that you’ll scream the answers I desire and I will go on… I will keep punishing until I see honest regret to accompany the answers you’ll inevitably share with me, sooner or later.” Eames spoke slowly, his words hissed, articulating almost comically much.

“I’m not scared of you.” Arthur whispered, though his wide deer-like eyes and heaving chest told Eames elsewise.

The Brit didn’t respond for a long time. Just staring the boy down, the tips of their noses bent as they pressed against the other’s.

“Eyes down.” He whispered, starting to notice the boy’s shivering as he was getting cold. His erection seemed to have settled as well, though Eames couldn’t be sure with touch alone.

Arthur obeyed after a few seconds which wasn’t good enough for Eames but he decided he could punish him for that later today. With the boy’s gaze downcast, Eames as well glanced down and he grimaced when he noticed Arthur’s erection hadn’t quite laid low just yet.  
He was still aroused… and noticing the boy could be hard even in his anger –perhaps _because of_ his anger- made Eames mentally question anything he’d done in the past to deserve such forbidden temptation.

He was just a kid, Eames told himself every day.  
Arthur was just a boy. A bright one, sure, but his brain still not developed to its full-grown adult stage. That being said, Eames fancied him badly, not only physically but as well did he enjoy Arthur’s personality, company, his wit and sarcasm and bite.

Eames was perhaps a bit smitten over the boy, which he shouldn’t be.  
It was the last of his moral conscience that he got left, which told him he should not –for the love of a god he did not believe in- corrupt this child any more than he already had.

The fact that Eames was a wee bit infatuated with this witty American, also explained (yet did not justify) why he’d gone berserk just now.  
He’d walked into the bathroom, already aware it was a bit of a bad idea but he couldn’t help himself. Arthur had been oddly needy last night, had been calm, had seemed to _crave_ Eames’ presence and Eames’ arms which in the last eight months truly had not happened… not like this… not this genuinely.  
  
And thus, Eames had been worried.

He just had wanted to check on the boy but then after he’d gotten over ogling the kid’s gorgeously pale, slim body… he’d seen the bruises on his ribs and then his throat. The handprint was loud and mocking… threatening.

All kinds of things had gone through his head at that exact moment. But absolute rage outshone and then when Arthur proved to be difficult and not tell Eames who the godforsaken bastard who’d hurt him was… well… the kid had thrown fuel on the fire.

Disobedience, disrespect, when one would see Eames as lesser or when one wouldn’t be intimidated by him… that’s when Eames’ inner, carnal side spiked up.

He didn’t even want to recall the dishonesty. A truly great pet peeve of his’.

“If you’re not afraid, then why do you obey?” Eames asked quietly, shifting a bit on his legs and watching how his clothed thigh rubbed against Arthur’s balls. The boy seemed to want to crawl up the wall, yet also press down on Eames’ leg. He optioned to stay still, his eyes squeezed shut.

Eames’ brain was currently discussing the most hypocritical and schizophrenic-bordering conversation it’d ever had. Whereas conscience cursed him to stop arousing this child, his desire pleaded of him to just have some fun… no sex, no kissing… no harm in that. Just touching… fuck did he want to touch.

“Because I want to get this over with.” Arthur mumbled, eyes still closed as if afraid to look down and be confronted visually with his own arousal.

“If you want to get this over with, you will just need to answer my question.” A pause followed and Eames smiled softly when the boy didn’t talk back.

“Good boy, now-“ Eames let go and pulled back and Arthur seemed to drop a few inches, he sighed in relief, his head thumping against the wall as he craned his neck and looked up at the ceiling. The Brit stepped out of the bathtub and then threw a towel in the boy’s face. Arthur flinched, more startled than anything else before he gingerly started to dry himself off.  
  
Eames sat down on the closed lid of the toilet seat and observed the Yank drying his body, beautifully ignoring his erection which finally was starting to lose some stiffness.

“Who did that to you?” Eames asked and watched Arthur’s jaw clench as he rubbed the soap and water from his skin with more determination. He didn’t reply, trying to ignore Eames’ question as if he hadn’t heard it and this pissed off the Colonel more than anything else before.

How dare this little Yank ignore his authority, how dare he disrespect his needs for answers, how dare he so much as doubt that Eames was asking him a question not about his own benefits.  
He wanted to help Arthur. Wanted to break the neck of the person who’d done this to his pet, to his Darling boy… he wanted to rescue Arthur and all the teenager could do was bloody sulk and act like a proper brat.

It was unbecomingly rude.

“One last chance, Arthur. Who put those bruises on you?” Arthur huffed, his body twitching awkwardly.

Fear.

He was afraid but too proud to show it.  
One part of Eames’ heart yearned to soothe him, comfort him and tell him it would be alright. The other part craved discipline, needed to punish this child and teach him that he was in bloody good hands and should respect the hand that feeds him, not bite it.

“What do you care?” Arthur murmured under his breath, cockily raising a brow at Eames before he stretched and started to dry his hair.  
Eames couldn’t help but be in awe of the kid’s silly braveness for standing in front of him, naked, vulnerable and currently blind because he was ruffling the towel over his head.

Eames was a predator at worst and thus this was the ideal time to strike. He got up with lightning speed and grabbed the boy with a handful of hair and towel.

“Fuck, E-Eames!” The Yank yelped in surprise but the Brit kept his mouth shut and didn’t look at how Arthur flailed his arms and legs as he dragged him out of the bathroom by his hair.

He’d given him how many chances -two? Three?- to answer his question and _still_ …

“Eames I swear to God if you hurt me-“ Arthur wasn’t able to finish his sentence because Eames chose to fling him onto the bed and immediately snap his fingers, commanding him to be ‘quiet’.

Their eyes locked once more, the boy panting, on his back, naked on the bed. Eames stood tall, hovering over the American with a threatening finger pointed at his face.

“Turn around.”

“Eames, I-“

“TURN. AROUND.” Eames barked, the loudness of his voice startled both of them. Arthur did what he was told and flipped over on the bed, down on his tummy.

“Elbows on the floor.” Arthur hesitated again and Eames took the time caused, to watch the long, lean, pale line of the young man’s back. His ribs shadowed beautifully underneath his skin. His still damp hair stuck out all directions, the towel lost somewhere on the floor in the process of dragging him over here.

Arthur moved then, pulling himself to the feet-end of the bed, leaning over it, his body flattened out on the mattress, toes digging into the fabric to keep a bit of grip as he planted his elbows and forearms on the floor beneath.

Eames held back a hum as he watched the curve of the American’s body.

“Flatten the insteps of your feet onto the mattress.” Eames continued, watching the boy obey much more willingly now, probably a bit more at ease on his tummy though it didn’t make sense because he couldn’t quite keep an eye on Eames this way.  
Yet… it did hide any more occasions that’d include ill-timed erections.

“Drop your head on your arms.” He saw Arthur’s biceps flex the minute he had to lower his head. His calves as well seemed to tighten and by the time his forehead touched his underarms, his whole body was a line of wired, strained muscles trying to keep his body on the bed _and_ the floor.

“You move an inch and your punishment will be much more severe.” Eames growled with a glare the kid didn’t catch, knowing he was intimidating the brat even with voice alone thought Arthur tried his best to look unaffected. The line of his shoulders tightened cheatingly.

Eames left the room then. He needed a cigarette… heck, he needed at least five fags and two glasses of Rum even at this ungodly hour of nine AM-something.  
He needed to cool down. Come back to his wits, if you will.

Eames needed to sort himself out. Remind himself that what he was doing wasn’t all that bad.  
He was disciplining this boy. It was the first punishment in a long time, and the kid truly had asked for it this time. He deserved the punishment he was about to receive for his disobedience.  
The harshest punishment so far.

Eames would have his fags, his drinks, his breathing exercises and poorly-developed self-meditation and then he’d get back in his room, find Arthur on the bed (or not) and spank the ever living crap out of him.

* * *

Pic referral;[ bottom left](http://hardigan-miku.tumblr.com/post/58523789758/its-so-easy-to-laugh-its-so-easy-to-hate-it).


	37. Please Fulfil Me, Otherwise Kill Me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shiittttt I don't know if I like this chap anymore...

  
**Chapter 37**   
_Please Fulfil Me, Otherwise Kill Me_   


Arthur didn’t like to think as to why he was still straining his whole body to keep in position. His muscles were aching and the blood that had rushed to his head thudded behind his eyes.  
  
But he maintained.

Eames had demanded of him to not move an inch and though Arthur hated the psychotic-streak in the Brit’s personality… He couldn’t ignore the hint of enjoyment to obey the man blindly.  
The fact that he was going to get punished was inevitable, it could only be delayed but then it’d get worse in the end.

It wasn’t the (apparently) physical abuse that scared him, but more so did he dislike the anticipation. Eames could stay away for hours, maybe all day, and Arthur would just have to lie there and wait for him.

It took him ten minutes before he figured out that this most likely was part of the punishment. The epiphany made Arthur bite through it for half an hour before finally the door opened and Eames strutted back inside.

He didn’t dare move nor speak, though, and thus lied quietly as he listened to Eames closing the door behind him and then started to move around with lazy steps.

It was unnerving that Arthur knew Eames had drank alcohol the moment he began to speak. His words weren’t slurred, not at all, but there was a slowness to them, a smiling gravel, that it only possessed when having been rubbed all the right ways by some hard liquor.

“Haven’t moved while I was gone, Darling?” Arthur sighed in relief at the pet-name. That was a good sign… mostly. Eames only called him Darling when in a good mood or just ridiculously pissed off.  
His slow, relaxed stride made sure to not have Arthur suspect a great amount of anger within his master.

“No, Sir.” He mumbled from between his arms, muscles quivering at the foresight of relief that Eames’ arrival brought along.

“Have had time to think it over, yeah?” His voice was closer now and Arthur heard the rustling of the man’s clothes as he squatted in front of him.

“Yes, Sir.” Arthur’s elbows were stinging so badly that he feared his arms would never be able to stretch fully again once he was granted out of the restrained position.  
Eames waited for a moment, Arthur wasn’t sure for what.

In the silence between them, Arthur could only huff quietly, every now and then groaning and collecting all of his willpower to not shift around and for the love of god not move a single toe as it would surely have his leg cramp immediately.

“Are you ready to answer my question?” Arthur froze when Eames stroked a strand of his hair behind his ear, it dropped back right after because of his down-tilted position. Nonetheless the movement hadn’t had anything to do with kindness or grooming. It had been a warning.

“No, Sir.”

“Are you ready to apologize?”

“No, Sir.” Arthur breathed, his voice shivering pathetically and surely the fingers which had stroked the shell of his ear just seconds ago now tangled themselves in his hair, pulling him up and resulting his back to arch painfully.

“Up.” Eames rumbled, pulling Arthur from the bed before the boy’s legs could adjust to the sudden rush of blood and shifted gravity. He tripped at least three times before he got manhandled onto Eames’ lap.

The Brit had sat down on the edge of the bed and now made quick work of bending Arthur over his left leg, his right one hooked itself around the backs of Arthur’s thighs and thus locking him in place. With his left hand he’d taken hold of both the American’s wrists and had them pinned painfully high on his back, his elbows strained under the uncomfortable angle.

“Now,” Eames began and Arthur cringed at how the man’s thigh underneath him felt too harsh on his ribs which heaved alongside his panting.

“You move, you flinch, you twitch, you yelp, cry or so much as hiss… and I will add more punishment.” A pause and Arthur nodded quickly.

He wasn’t sure what Eames was planning to do. He feared, for a split second, that the man would start bending up his restrained wrists and result in splintering elbows but then he froze abruptly when feeling warm, rough skin on his bottom.

Arthur peeked over his shoulder, ignoring how it hurt his neck and shoulders to strain and have a look what the hell was going on back there.

“Tut-tut.” Eames said and then downright swatted him on the ass. Arthur yelped, shocked.

“Eyes down, Arthur, and I’ll have to add a couple more for having made a sound.” The boy blinked, incredulously, and tried to comprehend what was going on.

So, obviously he was getting spanked, alright he got that, but what-

Another harsh slap landed on his left cheek and Arthur jumped.

“Eyes down, Arthur.”

“What?! No! Are you out of your mind?!” Arthur shouted, wide-eyed, staring at Eames as if he’d just sprouted two heads, one of which resembled a purple-paisley dragon.

Eames sighed dramatically before shifting around and flipping the boy on the bed once more. He crawled over him immediately, caging him with both arms and legs. Arthur held his breath, utterly confused.

“Arthur, pet, if you don’t shut your mouth and take punishment like a man… I am sorry to say I will have to ruin you to the point where sitting down will be a no-go for at least two weeks and I WILL demand you to sit down either way. Heck, I’ll have you sit down to sleep if that’s what it takes. But you’re going to keep that pretty mouth of yours closed from now on and you’re going to be grateful for this session for I could be doing much worse things to you and you know it.” Arthur swallowed as he looked into the light-grey eyes of his captor.

“You wouldn’t.” Arthur whispered before he could stop himself.  
It was the fear, that’s what he told himself. The fear made him reckless, it surged his pride into overdrive. He should shut up, he knew, he should keep quiet and take this like a man and then get over it.  
He’d lived with this man for over half a year and Eames hadn’t so much as tried to rape him which he was sure he was talking about. Arthur _was_ lucky.  
It was just that-

Fuck.

He really didn’t want to get spanked like a little child!

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Eames asked with a mock-frown, leaning down and turning his head so the shell of his ear was a mere inch away from Arthur’s lips.

The boy licked his lips nervously and his breath gusted out over Eames’ ear. The Colonel seemed to tense for a split second.

“You wouldn’t…” Arthur repeated.

“You wouldn’t, because you’re fond of me.” It was a very bold statement to make but Arthur wasn’t a complete idiot. He was very sure of Eames’ tiny crush on him, whether it being fatherly-like or not… it was there. He could see it, had seen it in the past.

Arthur truly wished he’d know whether Eames’ infatuation of him was strong enough to overpower the sense of loyalty to his leader and guardian Saito.

Eames closed his eyes for a second and Arthur leaned up to ‘accidentally’ brush the tip of his nose against the man’s earlobe. The Brit gulped.

“How can I fear you when I know you won’t hurt me… not badly.” The man frowned this time, opening his eyes and glancing at Arthur underneath him.

“I will hurt you if I need to.” He muttered.

“But not badly.” Arthur tried.

“Not badly.” Eames agreed and just like that the mood swapped around.

Eames might be older, stronger, smarter even, but Arthur had the advantage of being a manipulative little asshole and he had the knowledge that he was Eames’ weakness.

He was the man’s blind-spot. His kryptonite, so to say and surely Eames should know by now.

“I want you to tell me who’s done this to you. Why won’t you tell me?” The Brit frowned as he still towered over the pet. Arthur’s brain was busy trying to decide whether to take a risk and tell the truth or just stand his ground and face possible punishment… He wouldn’t be able to talk Eames out of it, no matter the man’s fondness… Eames was a determined man, got what he wanted, especially punishment and apologies.

“I won’t.”

“Then I’ll have to punish you.”

“I know.” Arthur whispered.

“Then be a good boy and keep as quiet and still as possible. Alright?” Eames sounded unbelievably considerable which resulted in Arthur huffing in a near-laugh. The Brit’s eyes flickered to the boy’s cheek, surely having caught sight of the dimple Arthur had flashed for a split second.

“What’s so funny, then?” His breath smelled like Rum, sweet and harsh.

“You talk to me as if I have a choice in all this.” Eames smiled at that and then shifted his weight on his left hand in order to brush the knuckles of his right against the boy’s throat. Arthur craned his neck a bit, in the hopes of pleasing Eames to some degree and thus have him go easier on him with the punishment.

It had hurt.  
A-fucking-lot.  
Spankings were absolutely underrated as they were seen to discipline a child but the way this build-like-a-tank Brit had smacked his behind was outrageous. He still could feel his bum burning.

“You have a lot of say in things, Arthur. Had you obeyed, had you given me anything to work with… this wouldn’t have to happen. Now be quiet. Fifty spankings-”

“Fifty spa-“

“On each side.”

“On EACH side?!” Eames hushed him then with a tap to his cheek and after a last glance at the boy’s throat he got up and pulled him with him.

Arthur followed the Brit to his desk a couple of feet farther in the bedroom. The man sat down heavily in the chair and Arthur vaguely noted that Eames had changed clothes in the half an hour he’d been gone. He was wearing a white button-up, simple black slacks and god-awful brown suspenders which snug to his trap-muscles too damn sardonically.

“Bend over the desk.” Arthur held back a hysterical giggle.

“Can I at least get dressed?” He asked as he faced the desk. Eames slapped him on his bottom right after, so hard that the kid stumbled a bit. Instinctively he covered his ass with both of his hands and looked over his shoulder at Eames with an offended expression on his face.

Eames quirked a brow at him, his ankle resting on his knee, chin leaning in one hand as the other rested in his lap as if he hadn’t just smacked the daylight out of him.

“The more you disobey, the worse this is going to get, Pet.” Arthur clenched his jaws then and swallowed back the stream of multi-lingual insults he desired to throw at the man’s head.

Arthur didn’t want this. He truly didn’t want this anymore. Screw his heroic thoughts of taking punishment like a man and get it over with and appreciate the fact Eames wasn’t selling him on the slavery-black-market to greedy, fat-fingered rich men who’d enjoy to feast on his young body.

But what was he to do?  
There was no way out? Anything he’d do would only delay the inevitable. Anything he’d not do would make matters much worse.   
He had to obey. HE HAD TO.

Gingerly the boy’s hands dropped to his sides again, baring his flushed-feeling ass to the Brit behind him. He could literally feel the redness of his skin.

Arthur bent over slowly, resting his chest and tummy on the cold wooden desk. He hissed, his nipples hardening when he accidentally rested one of them on Eames’ metal ruler. Arthur shifted a bit until he was as comfortable as he could be.

He listened to Eames getting up from his seat and his muscles tensed when the man took hold of both his hands and manoeuvred them up to the edge of the desk.

“Don’t let go.” He murmured and Arthur shivered at the sadistic promise in his voice. His long fingers curled around the edges of the bureau, framing his face. When Eames didn’t adjust his head, he carefully turned it so he could rest his right-cheek on the wood, his hot breath fanning out over the polished material.   
Arthur observed Eames in his peripheral vision.

“Now, fifty each. Anymore bratty-ness and I will keep adding by tens.” Eames said and Arthur watched the man open the drawer left from his thigh. He retreated a pair of leather gloves then and the boy swallowed loud when the Brit snapped the black pair on his large hands.  
He had no clue why it was necessary but he guessed it wasn’t for his benefit at all.

The man leaned over him for a second, the heat of his body radiating through his layers of clothing and caressing the boy’s skin with mock invite.

“Ready?” He whispered in his ear before clacking his teeth and retreating without awaiting the kid’s answer.  
Arthur was fuming at the Brit’s teasing.

Eames began spanking Arthur without further due. Straight to business –which he wasn’t used of- Eames hit every side of Arthur’s bottom on its turn. Left, right, left, right, right, left.   
He kept it even, the impact increasing subtly over time as Arthur heard Eames count under his breath.

It wasn’t until he got to fifteen (each, thus thirty in total) that Arthur lost some of his self-control and whined pathetically.

His body was starting to flinch, his hips digging themselves into the wood of the desk because his instincts cried he should get his ass away from Eames as far and as soon as possible.   
But Arthur maintained, his knees wobbled on each impact and the little gasps and cries that escaped his mouth became louder over time.

His fingers tightened their grip on the desk and Arthur pleaded to himself to just hold on, to keep going, to get through this without crying.  
He hadn’t cried in years.

But it hurt.  
Eames’ slaps were firm, harsh and quick. The soft leather gloves only seemed to enable Eames to smack him harder and by the count of thirty, Arthur whimpered.

Eames paused at that.

“Christ, Arthur…” Eames whispered, sounding very much out of breath and Arthur felt his cheeks heating up immediately when given time to. His bottom felt bruised already, his legs were tired with keeping his weight up. There was a wet patch on the desk where Arthur had panted and perhaps even drooled because he’d other things to focus on rather than swallowing his spit.

“You’re being a very good boy.” Arthur just wanted to tell him to piss off, wanted to turn around and hammer-fist him on the head, but he didn’t do anything.

His endorphins allowed Arthur to bite through. He felt high, floating on the hot sensation on his bottom which had travelled a relentless path up his spine into the back of his skull. It didn’t hurt now, when Eames wasn’t slapping him… it just felt very hot, tingly, as if every finger of Eames was being engraved in his ass, the contours of them tingling in the boy’s skin.

Eames’ dressed hand stroked softly over Arthur’s bottom. The boy would’ve cringed, would’ve been shy if it were not for the fact he truly appreciated to coolness of the leather. The soft brush took away some of the heat (only a little) and in the back of his head, over the pounding of his heart, he could hear Eames mumbling to himself.

The sound was almost soothing.

Arthur took a few deep breaths through his nose, exhaling slowly through his mouth, absently watching the wet patch on the desk widen by the oxidation.

“Such a good boy, Arthur. Such a good boy.” Eames seemed to pine, his voice a bit broken as his gloved hand rubbed from the boy’s ass up to his lower-back. He pressed down Arthur’s hips a bit, for no apparent reason but to want to feel the hotness of his skin travel through the fabric of the glove, before his fingers crawled up his spine, his shoulder-blades… the nape of his neck.

He squeezed there and Arthur sighed.

The feeling that washed over him couldn’t be put into words, but Arthur’s mind still tried to comprehend in grammar-ly ways just for the sake to keep him sane, to keep him grounded and aware of what the hell was going on.

He felt secured.

The grip on his neck felt like the pinch of a mother-cat nipping its kitten. Perhaps it was to scold, perhaps it was to carry it home, nonetheless it was a gesture of caring… of being taken care of and Arthur all but melted into the desk underneath.

“Oh, Arthur…” Eames whispered somewhere in the distance and Arthur just hummed. All he wanted- _could_ feel were the man’s hand on his body, were the imprints he’d left on his skin, were the lilts and curves of his voice traveling into his ears and setting camp in his subconscious, there to stay, there to take care of Arthur’s wicked little mind. Even the scents… the leather, the Rum, the cologne, the detergent, the sweat, the smoke… Eames, all of it so, so, so Eames, was all Arthur could feel nestling itself in his nostrils, scooting up into his brain like warm curves of smells which he’d inexplicably could touch – _taste_ \- with the tip of his tongue.

And just like that, amidst Arthur’s blissful high, Eames pulled him off the desk and into his arms as he sat in the chair.

Arthur grabbed fistfuls of Eames’ white shirt and dug his nose into the fabric, inhaling so deeply that he could feel his head spin.

“Darling Arthur. My sweet, little, Arthur. You’re such a good boy, Arthur. Such a bloody good boy. You did so well.” Eames cooed him, his hands –suddenly gloveless- seemed to be everywhere, stroking his hair, his face, his arms and back and hands and legs.  
  
Eames was everywhere and Arthur just wanted to curl up into all that was this man and stay there forever, die there if the day would come. But please… _don’t let go_.

“I won’t, Arthur.” Eames whispered into his ear as Arthur hadn’t even realized he’d said that out loud.

“You’re safe, Darling. I’ll take care of you, yeah? You made me so proud, sweetheart.” Arthur by now was sure he was dreaming for never had he felt this consoled, this comforted, this safe and this loved in his life, ever.  
And to feel this because of Eames seemed impossible to what little consciousness was left in him.

But that’s what this was. This was all subconscious matter. He was floating in his head which seemed stuffed with cotton, apple-scented and cloud-soft cotton. There was no room for thoughts, the cotton only absorbed emotions (only the good kinds) and blocked out anything dark such as the boy’s thoughts.

“Eames…” He hoarsely called, frowning slightly when a crack of fear burst through the pink and blue thickness in his mind.

“Shhh, Darling, it’s okay. Just let it wash over you, I’m right here with you. I won’t go anywhere, you’re safe.” Arthur believed him and just like that Eames’ words left the little tent he’d set up in Arthur’s mind, and glued shut the crack through which initial fear had seeped. Eames was with him… inside and out and nothing would happen to him.

_Your obedience for my care and protection._

The words Eames had spoken so many months ago rang in the back of Arthur’s mind and he now finally understood what they meant.  
He’d been obedient, he’d hold on to the desk, had kept quiet, he’d been strong for Eames, had taken it all and then Eames had rewarded him…

Arthur snuggled up to Eames closer, listening to the man coo nonsense in his ear. He felt himself drifting off in no time. Even though he couldn’t understand Eames’ words anymore as sleep and half-dreams nestled themselves in his head, Arthur revelled in the sound of his voice, soaked in it, absorbed it like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

And that’s what this was all about.

Eames _was_ the reason he was alive.  
Eames was the one who protected him. The one who took care of him.  
  
Eames was Arthur’s master and Arthur was Eames’ pet and at that exact moment the boy would rather die than ever be anyone- anything else but Eames’.


	38. Destiny for Some is to Save Lives but Destiny for Some is to End Lives

[Marine](http://dreaminmymind.tumblr.com) threatened me with Twilight spam if I don't have Arthur and Eames doing naughty things soon.  
So I'm glad to say that in the next chapter OR the one after that, some dirty things will go on between our dreamhusbands.

Also, **mentioning of[subspace](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Subspace_\(BDSM\)) and [aftercare](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aftercare_\(BDSM\)) in this chapter** _(if not familiar with these, I did not excessively explain in the chap, so check the links)_

 

* * *

****

  
**Chapter 38** _  
Destiny For Some is to Save Lives but Destiny For Some is to End Lives_   


 

Arthur in subspace was the most beautiful thing Eames had ever seen in all of his twenty-eight years of being alive.

Though Arthur was his first pet, Eames was no stranger to BDSM and its components such as subspace and aftercare.

It had been an hour since he’d spanked the boy on his desk. Arthur was still curled up in Eames’ arms and the man would’ve thought he was asleep were it not for the occasional murmur. He talked a bit of gibberish, normal in subspace but something to keep an eye on… Eames hadn’t heard of anyone remaining in the pain-pleasure induced high for over an hour.

“Apples were for when I came home.” Arthur mumbled, lying completely still, curled into a ball on Eames’ lap.

“Were they, Petal?”

“Mom made apple-pie for dad. And for me. It was for happy days only.” Eames nuzzled his nose in the boy’s hair and resumed to stroke his index finger over the shell of his out-sticking ear.

“Happy days with apples, Arthur?”

“Yeah… yeah… Always.” Arthur chuffed in an attempt to laugh but he was too exhausted to. His body was completely limp in the Brit’s arms.

“So that’s why you like apples, Darling?” He scratched the boy’s scalp and felt him twitch for a split second.

“I like when you call me that.”

“Darling?”

“Yeah…”

“Why?” Arthur sighed at the question and brought up weak arms to wrap around Eames’ neck. The man’s breath hitched.

“I really want to kiss you.” The boy confessed and Eames stirred in his seat, his heart as well pausing before it thumped wildly.

Now here’s the problem in the kid's request.

For starters Arthur was six-to-seventeen years old. A whopping twelve-to-thirteen years younger than Eames. Allowing this boy to kiss him would gut-punch Eames right in the conscience and the last of what was left of his genuine ‘abuse no kids or women’ code.  
The tricky part here was that Arthur was still heavily floating in subspace, which asked of Eames –as the (after)care-taker – to grant the boy’s every wish and make him as happy and comfortable as possible.   
This was a moment where the boy was at his most vulnerable, Eames could ruin all they had just by refusing a kiss… But then if he did kiss him… what would happen once the boy got back to his wits? Surely he’d scold Eames for having taken advantage of him.

This was quite surely a lose-lose situation.

“Are you distracting me from the question I asked?” Eames spoke instead and allowed Arthur to pull his head down a bit, making sure to turn his face away subtly. Arthur pressed his nose in his cheek and then rubbed his lips over the Brit’s stubble.

“Yeah.”

“Cheeky bugger.” Eames smiled, stroking the nape of Arthur’s neck and feeling him going pliant immediately as if there was a button there that turned the boy into a meek puddle of obedience and want.

Arthur pursed his lips then and kissed Eames on the cheek, or more so just planted his lips there and made smooching noises.

“I don’t want to be spanked.” Arthur murmured after a while of smooching Eames’ stubble and the Brit just brushed his thumb over the base of the kid’s skull.

“We didn’t finish the session, but don’t worry for tonight, Pet.” Arthur nudged his nose against the man’s cheekbone then, his body shifting on his lap and the toes of his feet which rested on Eames’ left thigh curled into the fabric of his trousers.

“You’ve been very good, Arthur. For the rest of today we’ll do what you want, alright?”

“I don’t ever want to be spanked again.” Arthur downright whined in a way only a teenager could and Eames shushed him gently, suppressing the shiver that wanted to roll down his spine when Arthur carefully smooched his ear.

“Sh-sh, don’t worry about it. We’ll figure something out.” Eames consoled, stroking a hand over both insteps of Arthur’s feet. He had adorable feet, normal-sized for the kid’s age, but with monkey-like toes which wiggled often when he experienced strong emotions or was eating favourite foods.

Eames plans for the day had to wait.  
He’d been set on investigating further who had hurt Arthur. Jean-Pierre being the only one with the key, but it was difficult to believe the Frenchman would ever be interested in Arthur, let alone lay a hand upon him.  
Nonetheless, Jean-Pierre most likely knew more about this, but Eames hadn’t found him this morning when he’d been smoking fags and roaming his home. He most likely was out to buy Arthur’s food, so Eames would just have to wait patiently for his return.

“You smell good.” Arthur murmured quietly and Eames wasn’t sure if the boy had meant to say that out loud. He stroked the boy’s back instead and traveled the hand on his feet, up a shin to his knobby knee, tickling it with the tips of his fingers.

Arthur mewled as if suppressing a giggle and Eames smiled once more.

What a lovely, lovely boy.

“Would you like some food, Darling?” Arthur shrugged, burying his face back in Eames’ chest. Eames ignored the fact that his legs were sleeping, the pins and needles making the tiniest movement ache.

“A bath?” Another shrug, softer this time.

“Would you like to go out?” Arthur hugged Eames more tightly then, telling the man his answer even before his head bopped up and down in a determined nod.

“I would love to go out, Sir.” Eames stomach contracted at the name.

“Today?”

“Yes please.” Arthur whispered, the words badly pronounced and Eames knew the boy was slipping into a slumber.

“First sleep and eat, yeah? Can you do that for me, Arthur?”

“Yeah, sure...” Arthur replied and then fully drifted off.

Eames wasn't too happy about taking him out again, after all he was pretty sure Saito by now had caught word of it.  
But the boy was a bit more important for his immediate satisfaction.  
He'd figure things out in the end. Saito was a worry for later.  
First he needed to please the boy and find out what had happened to him. It was time to bond after the rare event of having slipped into subspace. Which truly wasn't something that easily happened with a lack of trust... Arthur, to some degree, trusted Eames.

The Brit grimaced, not certain how to feel about that.

* * *

 

“I still need to be spanked, what, thirty times?”

“Don't worry about it. It's not necessary.” Eames muttered, passing a piece of bread with cheese to his pet. The food was beyond luxurious, beyond worth-sharing with an inferior like Arthur.

They were seated in a deserted building, it was about eight stories high. Both seated on aged, wooden chairs, they looked out to back alleys of London as well as the distant horizon, through a wide gap in the wall where there used to have been a window.  
It wasn't snowing and though it was chilly, the setting sun seemed to warm them both in the dark room.

“This is why we have problems, Eames.” Arthur mumbled before taking a bite out of the bread. Unlike before, Arthur now seemed to keep what he liked best for last... perhaps because subconsciously he finally understood he wouldn't be starving anytime soon. It was a tiny detail Arthur himself probably had never noticed, but Eames had seen the change and it pleased him.

“What do you mean?” Eames asked, ignoring his own food because he already had planned to lie about a full stomach in order to pass the food on to Arthur.

“You're inconsistent.” Arthur frowned and Eames observed him closely in the red light of the setting sun.

“You're... confusing. As much as you lead your army with an iron hand, you fail to do so with me and it is unsettling... it is-... I just don't know what to do or when to do it.” He took another bite from the bread then, his gaze shifting towards the cheese for a second before he glanced at Eames.

“You want to base our relationship on trust, but how can I trust you when you're so-so... unstable?”

“You have to understand I've got bosses who monitor my relationship with you.” Eames spoke slowly, unsure if this was reason enough to treat the boy in the 'wonky' manner as he mentioned.

Arthur was right.  
Eames was unstable, inconsistent, irrational sometimes. He went from angry to kind, from happy to mad and from 'eyes down' to 'let's cuddle'. Arthur was right, but truth was that Eames was far in over his head. He wasn't sure how much Saito knew, wasn't sure how much Arthur knew and let alone that he himself bloody knew what the hell was going on half the time.

It were those underlying emotions for this kid that ruined his 'iron grip'.  
It were the feelings he possessed for dearest Arthur, that made it very difficult for him to be rational in his presence, to treat him fairly and without prejudice.

“Well... it's me or them.” Arthur muttered, finally stuffing cheese into his mouth and audible humming at the flavour.

“It's not that simple, Arthur, I can't just-”

“I don't care, Eames... I can't, since I'm not worthy your honesty and care, how could I?” Eames sunk teeth into his tongue at that, biting back defiant words and trying to get rid of the tip on his shoulder because Arthur was right.

Arthur was one-hundred percent right.

“So you rather have me dominate you twenty-four seven?” Eames asked, looking at the sky above the blood-red sun, coloured pinks and blues and oranges and yellows. It would've been much more beautiful in another life. In this one though, it only casted a red glow over the empty streets and decaying buildings, resembling the gallons of blood that had been spilled in the war so far.

Eames shivered.

“I'd rather not but it would leave me with certainty.”

“So, what do you want?” Arthur seemed to consider this and Eames had to smile -through his hurt pride- when the boy distractedly prodded the cheese with the tip of his tongue.

“I want routine, structure. I want a steady underground. Predictability.” Arthur looked at him then and Eames clenched his jaws... how could he ever grant the boy these things?

“I want to know you won't laugh one moment and then scold me the next. I want to be sure I can come to you and tell you anything without you being blinded by possible rage.” Eames' heart skipped a beat at that, not only because he vaguely hinted at the shower incident that morning, but as well because he admitted to wanting to share things with him.

“You want to tell me things?”

“Yeah...” Arthur muttered, rubbing the back of his neck before looking outside and taking a bite from the Brie cheese.

“I'm flattered.”

“You shouldn't be... I've got no one else to talk to. It was inevitable that at one point I would come to realize that I have to get rid of my hatred towards you, bite back the dislike and just learn to make the best of it... But making the best of it is impossible when I can't figure you out nor trust you to care and protect me such as you promised.” Eames grimaced once more at his words. It was ironic, if not hurtful, that Arthur was far more on track than he was.  
Eames had lost direction a long time ago. When it came to Arthur, he'd fucked up from the start, uncertain how to treat an innocent child with a murderous leader watching over his shoulder.

Intimidation and violence had often been ways to get what he wanted from and of people.  
But with Arthur, it had been the wrong choice, no matter their Master-pet relationship.

“Which brings us to your obedience.” Eames spoke.

“Your obedience for my care and protection, Arthur.” The teenager paused mid-bite at that and glared at Eames from the corner of his eye.

“I can't obey you when I don't trust you.”

“And I can't trust you when you don't obey me.”

They both stared at one another then, realizing something had got to give. Realizing that they were neck-deep in crap and they had to figure this out together, they had to change something before they drowned in unresolved fuck-ups.

“Do you want to start over?” Eames asked, watching Arthur consume the last of his cheese.

“Again?”

“Don't be cheeky, Arthur, I'm serious... I agree with what you said. Shall we start over?” Arthur leaned back in the chair, the heels of his boots grounding him whilst he tipped the furniture on its back legs.

“So, what? We just start over with you dominating me the whole time?”

“No, none of that.” Eames muttered, reaching out his piece of bread with cheese to the boy.

“You get upset when I don't obey. Are you telling me your anger issues can be managed properly, then?” They stared at one another quietly before Eames quirked a brow and gently pressed the boy's shoulder with the knuckles of his hand which was holding the food. Arthur took it carefully.

“I get upset when you do not obey demands... if I simply avoid commanding you... perhaps that would work.” Arthur looked at him then as if seeing him for the first time and Eames awkwardly awaited the boy's reply.

He knew he must be sounding like an absolute nutter to him... There was no way Arthur trusted Eames being serious at that time.

“So, we start over as a normal coup-” Arthur cut his word off and Eames watched the kid bite angrily in the piece of bread as he looked away. The Brit smiled.

“Like a normal couple, then, yeah. Friends, more so. Well, as close to friends as we can be in these circumstances.” Arthur swallowed the food and his lean legs dangled from the tipped chair.

“So that's it then? We wasted eight months on psychopathic dynamics and now we'll just live normally alongside one another until someone finds out?”

“Yeah.”

“What's in it for you?” Arthur asked and then.

“Why would you risk your career and life for this?”

That was the perfect question, wasn't it? Eames wasn't sure why he was doing this.  
Perhaps he was tired of the life he'd been living for so long, perhaps he did feel shameful to stand by the flag of his home country. Perhaps he did question Saito's morals and maybe he did feel more than infatuation for this boy...  
Truth was, Eames thought this all to be worth the risk... This was all worth it if only he could soothe the boy, get to know the boy, live alongside the boy, live the boy, breathe the boy.  
Save the boy.  
Save one, bloody life in this war. Just one gorgeous life in order to make up for the thousands he'd taken in the name of England, in the name of money-and-oil induced war.

“I need to repent.” Eames muttered then, frowning at the realization that this could be the truth rather than pretty words to convince Arthur of his intentions.

“What if someone finds out?”

“It doesn't matter. We will run.” Arthur nearly fell backwards as he jumped in his seat, but Eames kicked the back-leg quickly, the chair scooting and falling forwards on its four paws.

“Are you kidding me?”

“No, I'm perfectly serious.” Eames replied with a blank face.

He wasn't sure he'd go that far, but prior to worst-case scenarios such as Saito finding out, Eames first job was to soothe his pet-no his 'friend' and figure this out together with him.  
He wouldn't run from his country with Arthur... that would be absurd... Why would he run from all he's ever fought and lived for, simply to save a sixteen-year old American's life?  
And then his subconscious gnawed at his mind, nodding and saying that 'yes, Eames would run, Eames would give up all that he'd known for this boy because all he'd known in the past didn't matter, didn't belong to happiness, happiness that could be ignited by saving a life, loving a life. Loving Arthur'.

Eames choked on his own spit then and he ignored Arthur's suspicious look

“Look, Arthur.” Eames said, facing the boy and waiting until he brought up his eyes to look at him.

“We're going to live normally. No more rules, no more submission, no more two words or eyes down or tasks and punishment.” Arthur watched him wide-eyed and Eames knew at that moment he was fucking himself over because no chance in hell that no one would find out eventually... No chance in hell Eames would be able to cope with a bratty attitude without the possibility to punish the kid... But he had to do this, had to try this, had to sacrifice parts of himself in order to save Arthur.

That had been his intention, right?  
Save the kid, give him as good as a life possible to give in today's world. Care and protect.  
Respect...

“Before we do this... I need one more thing from you.” A pause.

“I need to know who bruised your throat like that.” The boy bit into his cheese immediately, obviously trying to gain more time. His eyes shifted back outside, the sky a dark purple by now and the pale features of Arthur's profile less prominent in the dark.

“Let's start with a clean slate, Darling. All truths and no unnecessary secrets. Alright, Love?” Arthur nodded around another bite of cheese before licking the tips of his fingers clean. Eames ignored the jump in his stomach at the sight of the kid's lips pursed around his bright-pink tongue.

“If I tell you... can you explain to me what happened this morning when you punished me... at your desk?” Eames nodded immediately, not seeing a problem in explaining subspace to the kid (in contrary).

“Of course, Arthur. Now tell me what happened to you so we can fuck off from this Master-Pet bullocks and start over normally.” Arthur nodded, leaning back in his chair, looking outside at the dark city.

“So you promise... normality?” He asked again, glancing at Eames who by now was pouring some wine into a porcelain cup (classy).

“I promise to try to give you the most normal life I can without screwing you or me over.” He reached out the wine to the Yank who took it with a nod.

Arthur drank his wine in silence as Eames smoked a fag on the window-sill, looking down the seven stories and seeing nothing but darkness and brick skeletons.

“I did it myself.” Eames stirred at Arthur's words and looked to his right at the kid. Arthur looked tiny in the chair, with his legs brought up and crossed at the ankles, the cup of wine resting in his hands on his lap.

“Excuse me?”

“The bruises.” Arthur spoke, swirling his drink before looking back up at Eames.

“I did it myself, I-uh... I get off on it.” In the dark it was hard to tell, but when the boy dipped his head Eames could swear he saw him blush.

So that's the reason he was so secretive about it? Eames recalled the placement of the finger-shaped bruises and had to admit they could've been self-inflicted. It did make sense, Arthur seemed to tick a bit when violence was involved... hence the erection in the shower when Eames had caged him in with his body and intimidated him.  
Eames realized at that exact moment that he could nor should ever do that again.

Normality.

Arthur needed structure and normality.  
Like any other teenager.

“What about the ones on your hips and ribs?” Eames asked, flicking his fag into the abyss, watching it tumble down until the red spark vanished.

“The one on my ribs is when I tipped over in the bathtub, the ones on my hips were as well self-inflicted.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Arthur muttered, blushing even more as he dipped his nose in the black, knitted scarf.

“I'm embarrassed.” He scoffed and Eames chuckled heartily. He got up and walked towards Arthur, reaching out his hand.

“Let's go home, yeah?” Arthur looked up at him and Eames saw the hint of a dimple in the boy's left cheek.

“Alright.”

“Let's go to bed, and start our new lives tomorrow, yeah?” Arthur nodded once more.

They went home and Eames' heart never managed to settle down a bit with Arthur curled up in front of him in the bed. They were facing one another, the kid listening to Eames explaining what subspace was all about, how it was caused (mixture of pain and pleasure) and what it meant (some sense of trust, letting go, allowing his mind to settle with his body).

Arthur listened attentively and even seemed to smirk slightly at Eames' jokes.  
It was such a difference, so quickly, so greatly, that it literally took Eames' breath away.

Tomorrow everything would be different.  
Tomorrow, Arthur and Eames would finally get to know each other.

* * *

 

[Set picture](http://hardigan-miku.tumblr.com/post/62654943327/under-the-iron-bridge-we-kissed-and-although-i) I used in this chap. _(second one of the second collage)  
_ More Still Ill sets [here](http://hardigan-miku.tumblr.com/tagged/stillill).

I'm very uncertain about this chap ~~ _(because i wrote this while drunk)_~~ and have reread it 3 times.  
I also asked [Chloe](http://merry-chases.tumblr.com/) to read and review it for me.   
  
So I hope you guys like it!


	39. Drank too Much, Said too Much and There's Nowhere to Go But Down

**  
**Before reading this chapter, please read the[Christmas spinoff](../../1099412) as that one comes inbetween this chap and the previous one.

Warnings: some light blood-play (biting)

* * *

**Chapter 39**

  
**  
** _\- Drank too Much, Said too Much and There's Nowhere to Go But Down -_   


  
_October (about 2 months later)_

 

The worst thing that happened after they decided to live with each other 'normally' was that Arthur experienced days he'd completely forget about Eames' mean-streak.  
He forgot a bit about the war, forgot about the English being the Americans' enemy and then forgot he had been held hostage for ten months by then.

Arthur forgot about age differences, forgot about Saito, forgot about his pride and forgot about his disgust.

The boy was a daily witness of an Eames he'd never seen before.

Eames turned out to be a lovely man and at times when Arthur's subconscious would drag back memories of the beginning of the year, he would cringe at the realization that this was the same human being who'd punished him numerous times in their past.

But people changed, such as goals and opinions did, and Arthur felt himself growing a little bit fond of Eames who went out of his way to spoil him like a son and sometimes like a lover (inappropriate with his compliments yet he didn't lay one finger upon him).

Everyday it was harder to remember his roots and remember what he'd been fighting for ever since his father's death and then his mother's. It became more and more difficult to see Eames as the initial enemy, it became less prominent to see that the life they were living still was wrong... unfair.

Sometimes he'd vaguely make up excuses for allowing Eames to domesticate their relationship, such as that it had been forbidden by Saito. The Jap had threatened Arthur two-and-a-bit months ago, told him to not allow Eames to grow weak with infatuation for him. He'd told him things that had made Arthur realize he was having a bigger effect on Eames, and with that England's military, than he initially had thought to.  
Thus allowing their relationship to grow kinder, in a way he was screwing over not only Saito, but as well England's military and thus England itself.

't was a far-fetched excuse, but necessary to blind himself from the underlying reasons that caused Arthur to give in to Eames' soothing words and ridiculous sense of humour.

Eames and him being kind meant mayhem for the army, for the leaders... for some crazy reason.  
Still, Arthur found it very hard to believe he was truly having that much of an effect on Eames. But then he'd wake up to breakfast on bed, or Eames trying desperately to make him laugh, give Arthur the last of his food and then some, allow the boy warm water when available... everything just... proved it.

Eames was infatuated with Arthur and because the boy was an American, surely this must influence Eames' sight on the current war sometime soon.  
This had been why Saito had threatened Arthur. It made sense, but...

The question was why he was still alive.  
Why hadn't he been killed yet by Saito? Something didn't click... something was off. There was a reason he was still walking around peacefully with Eames and hadn't had his head chopped off. But what?

“Alright, Love?” Arthur woke from his pondering and looked up at Eames who passed the bed, knotting his tie distractedly before he came to a halt to the kid's right.

“Yeah, fine.” Arthur answered and his stomach clenched when seeing Eames smile at him, the wrinkles around his soft eyes creasing, the gray-green in his irises melting and the curve of his lips as gentle as his voice.

He was Eames' weak-spot.  
It was very, very clear.   
The man was but a shadow of the nutcase he'd been months ago. He looked calm, grounded... domestic.   
Though Arthur enjoyed indulging in the peace and kindness of the Brit, it as well unnerved him. Like a calm before a storm of sorts. Electricity was tingling the air around them continuously.

And then there was the side of Arthur, no matter how repressed, that missed Eames' authority and dominance. It was a confusing side, an ugly one and the boy made sure to keep it locked away.

It was odd to not be controlled any longer. Not to be told what to do and when to do it, as if a kind of responsibility now lied in Arthur's hands.

The boy was, besides confused and on edge, rather rooted in the calm. He reveled in the lack of fights and mind-games, but then it felt a bit awkward to live alongside an Englishman who didn't seem to bare grudges.

“Eames?” Arthur called when the man had turned around to fetch his coat from the dresser. The Brit looked over his shoulder curiously.

“Yes?”

“Why is this going so easily?” Arthur asked, his hands fumbling with the threads of his grey socks.

“Why is what going so easily?” Eames asked with a frown, straightening up before pulling his coat on.

“Us.”

“Us?”

“Doesn't this all seem too peaceful to you?” Eames seemed to consider the question, something that soothed Arthur's mind a bit.

“We're winning the war, Arthur. There's not much time to monitor one another, everyone's over their heads with possible victory. Hence, we can live quietly at the moment.” Arthur blinked at that, the words a complete surprise.  
Something in his chest ached at the thought of his dearest home-land losing the war, but then his heart warmed at the thought of a changing world... the end of an era, the start of a peaceful life perhaps.

“How long has this been going on?”

“Nearly two months, why?” Eames asked with a teasing smile on his lip, most likely endeared by the boy's curiosity and questioning. The Brit did enjoy talking with Arthur.

“So, you guys are winning?”

“Yeah, the war is coming to an end.”

“What happens after that?” The Colonel shrugged at that, grabbing a toothpick which he'd hidden between skull and shell of the ear.

“Nothing to worry your pretty head over.” Arthur scowled at Eames' words but knew it was the man's dismissal of the subject and he watched Eames leave the bedroom after having tapped the chain-lock on the door, rising eyebrows at Arthur.

The fact the man had installed a chain-lock on the door about two months ago made Arthur doubt he 'd believed his lie of the bruises on his neck having been caused by himself rather than an intruder.  
Either way, Eames had let the issue slip and they both had stepped into a new setting of 'friendship'.

Whereas in the beginning Arthur had told himself he was allowing Eames to be gentle in order to fuck with his Colonel-authorial state, it took him two weeks to admit that he enjoyed the new setting... Saito be damned.

If Saito had wanted to kill Arthur, he would've done so without warning.  
And though Arthur still feared the Jap, and still expected him to bust inside and drive a bullet through his skull one day, his tired heart just wanted to rest and accept a comfortable life alongside Eames even if it'd mean his death.

Arthur was, beyond everything, so very tired and so fucking lonely.  
Even the chats he used to have with Jean-Pierre before the Frenchman left England to god knows where two months ago, were some things that Arthur missed.  
Arthur only had Eames.  
Only Eames.

How could he ever stand a chance?

* * *

  
_December, 31 st (nearly 3 months later)_

 

“The war's over!”

Those were the first words Eames said whilst bursting inside with half a dozen of bottles of liquor clenched in his arms.

Arthur could only blink rapidly as Eames brushed past him to walk inside the bedroom.

“What?” He asked, following Eames who was busy disposing the bottles on his desk before shrugging off his coat.   
Arthur, out of habit, twirled the die in the pocket of is pants.

“The war's over, Darling. Now be a doll and sit in the corner over there, there's a visitor coming.” The command was so odd, so unusual and unexpected after nearly five months without demands and domination, that it took Arthur quite some time to process the command.

“Just for the visitor, Pet.”

“Can't the visitor meet you in your office instead of the fucking bedroom?” Arthur mumbled and Eames swatted him playfully over the head.

“Language, Arthur, and no. Visitor needs to have a look at the piping in the bathroom.” Arthur recalled the cold showers as of lately and then rolled his eyes.

“Sounds like a pick-up line.” Eames looked thoroughly amused at Arthur's dry remark but still nudged him towards the corner behind his desk.

Arthur sat down in the corner, hands on his knees, calves underneath him and he watched the still opened door closely.

“Hey.” He heard a voice from the hallway call and watched Eames wave the visitor inside.

Well, it wasn't Morrissey, such as he'd hoped, nor was it Saito which he'd feared.

A man in his mid-thirties walked inside, his posture stiff and proud, his skin tanned and his hair bleached by sun. He wore a creamy-white suit with golden buttons and trims and overall looked a bit like royalty or just a well-payed mobster.

His ice-blue eyes darted immediately at Arthur, as if he'd felt the boy's gaze or perhaps had been looking for him. Most likely everyone knew Eames owned a pet by now.

“That's the pet?” The stranger asked, his eyes rolling down Arthur's body and the boy stiffened a bit before he remorsefully looked down, remembering the old rules. Even Arthur could hear the false English tone to his voice and surely Eames must as well. This man was an American for sure.

“Yeah, come check the plumbing, Dom.” Eames spoke and Arthur felt giddy to see the jealous flicker in the Brit's eyes as he pulled the guy towards the bathroom.

Dom looked over his shoulder before disappearing into the bathroom, Arthur at the same time looked up and witnessed the saucy wink the blond threw him.  
He flushed.

It took ten minutes of gibberish before Eames and Dom came back outside and the Colonel then invited the false-Englishman for some Scotch in his office.

“Sure, bring the pet along?” Eames quirked a brow at that and Arthur feigned looking down at his hands on his legs while in all honesty he was peaking through eye-lashes and fringe.

“What, so you can ogle him a bit more?” Eames grinned at his friend, slapping a friendly hand on the man's shoulder but Arthur noticed the carnal glint in his eyes.

“Can't blame me for enjoying pretty sights.” Dom smiled stiffly and there was a cold gleam in the blue of his irises.

Eames remained quiet for a moment, pursing his lips around a toothpick which he'd fetched from god knows where before he beckoned Arthur over. The boy didn't even need to look up, could see it in his peripheral vision, could see it in the stance of the man (the toes of his shoes pointing towards him), could nearly _feel_ Eames' request.

Arthur got up and walked over to Eames, making sure to keep looking down for the sake of keeping up appearances.

“What's its name?” Dom asked.

“Whatever I want it to be.” Eames growled and there was an odd sense of competition in the air. It didn't contain animosity persé, but there was some unspoken fight, testosterone-filled pride.

Arthur, to his surprise, felt himself grow pleasantly warm.

“Heel.” Eames commanded and Arthur obeyed immediately, going to stand to Eames' left, shoulder behind him, their bodies so close he could feel the man's body heat.

Dom made a sound in the back of his throat which most likely outed him being impressed by Arthur's obedience.

“Shall we?” The Colonel asked with mock friendliness before the three of them left to Eames' office.

* * *

  
  


Three hours later, they were in the dining-room and the man going by the name of Dom Cobb lost all his stiffness and pretenses and seemed to be quite a fun-going guy.  
Though Arthur never judged books by their cover, same going for the first couple of pages hiding its center, he still enjoyed Cobb's sense of humor as well as -completely off-topic- sitting on the floor next to Eames' chair as the men drank and told each other old stories.

Eames was genuinely drunk, Arthur knew so because of the almost Scottish dialect on his tongue which only intensified when he'd drank a couple too many. He was good at faking, excellent, but Arthur had known Eames for a year now and he knew.

Also, more proof being; he smoked one cigarette after the other and then also... he was being touchy.

It was probably not that unlikely for a Master to fondle his pet a bit here and then, then and now, in the company of visitors but Eames wasn't one to publicly display such acts.

This being said, Arthur didn't mind when Eames brushed a knuckle behind his ear for the eight time that night. Nor was he upset when the tips of his fingers brushed over the nape of his neck... or when those fingers crawled up and entwined themselves into the black curls of Arthur's too-long hair.

Arthur noticed that, even though he hadn't drank a single drop of alcohol, he was getting hotter and hotter as the evening progressed. Not to mention his shortness of breath.

“Speaking of which-” Dom began, sprawled in the chair across from Eames, the table having slid out of the way and leaving nothing but a carpet in between both men's chairs.

“Your pet seems to be rather fond of you.” The man's English accent was messy with alcohol in his system and Arthur was sure Eames heard the falseness to it as well.

Eames looked down at Arthur then, and the boy had to remind himself to not look up.

“Yeah... he's a good boy.” Eames murmured, his voice hoarse. He wrapped a hand around the left side of his head then, and pulled Arthur towards his thigh. The boy meekly complied and then rested his right cheek and shoulder against the man's leg. He sighed quietly and closed his eyes.

Eames proceeded to pet his head, stroking his fingers softly through messy strands of hair, every now and then scratching behind his ear or the base of his skull. Arthur felt a ridiculous urge to purr and groan.

It felt wonderful. Soothing and... exciting.

“I heard it was a tough one.” Dom continued and Arthur peeked through his lashes and fringe, watching the man swirl his glass of Scotch, his ankle crossed on a knee and his blue eyes observing him closely.

“Oh?” Eames hummed, sounding relaxed but Arthur felt his fingertips twitch in his neck. The boy rubbed his cheek against the man's thigh a bit, reveling in the warmth and the rough texture of his pants, but as well just telling him he was with him.

“I heard it used to be a feisty one. It was in the same batch of where I got my pet from, hence why I know a bit of information about this young man.” Eames snickered at that, most likely recalling the impressive list of crimes Arthur had committed when he'd been living on the streets.

“I also heard you assassinated the soldier who'd beaten up your pet.” Arthur stirred at Dom's words.

He was referring to the soldier who'd given Arthur his split lip and various bruises because Arthur had put up a bit of a fight when being picked off the streets. It had been a thorough beating, one Arthur wouldn't forget ever and he as well recalled Eames' dangerous tone when having confronted said soldier with his deeds of beating up a teenage boy.

Arthur could hear Eames' smile through his following words.

“I did.”

“That's quite something.” Dom muttered in his glass before gulping it down completely.

Eames didn't reply, just stretched his legs and crossed his ankles. Arthur hummed quietly, only for the Brit's ears, when said man squeezed the nape of his neck. The boy automatically dipped his head and allowed his lips to brush against the fabric of Eames' pants.

He felt so hot.  
Too hot.  
If Eames didn't stop stroking him, if he didn't stop being so warm and smelling so good and casually mentioning having murdered an abuser of his'... Arthur felt like he'd explode.

It took another hour before Dom left and when Arthur and Eames returned to their bedroom, there was an almost awkward atmosphere.

“He seemed a bit dodgy, don't you think?” Arthur asked, imitating Cobb's poor excuse of an English accent and Eames smirked at him.

“Dom's alright. Known him for a while. He mostly lives abroad hence why we rarely meet up.” Eames spoke calmly, though there was a roughness to his voice and a teasing smirk on his full lips.

Arthur found that Eames looked very, irritatingly handsome when drunk.

“Shall we drink and continue to celebrate, yea?” He asked then, grabbing the bottles he'd left earlier on the desk with both of his arms before playfully swaying towards the bed.

“Is this a good idea?” Arthur frowned but followed the man either way. They both dropped down on the bed, both on each side of the pile of bottles of alcohol in the middle.

“Arthur, Darling, don't be such a bore. It's new year's eve and the war's over. Good times are awaiting.” Arthur rolled his eyes not only at the teasing but as well at the thought of 'good times'. Yeah right.

They both proceeded to get rid of their shoes and socks before lying down on the bed, backs propped against various pillows.

“So, what? We're going to get drunk until we pass out?” The boy wiggled his toes and grunted when Eames threw a bottle of liquor on his tummy.

“I never did see you drunk.” Eames growled and bumped a shoulder into the boy next to him. Arthur glared at him shortly before finally returning the shove to the shoulder.

“Are you going to take advantage of me?”

“Is that a request, Artie?” The boy jumped at the name and he shoved Eames roughly. The man, unprepared (drunk) as he was, nearly dropped off the bed but managed to catch himself on time.

“Piss off.” The American growled and Eames just smiled at him, uncapping the bottle of Whiskey and promising him they'd have a lovely new year's eve.

* * *

  
  


Two hours later and Arthur was floating.

Eames kept shouting and pointing dramatically every time the kid would smile or giggle or laugh and this only caused for him to burst into fits of laughter which hurt his tummy and lungs but warmed his chest all the more.

Somehow a few of their limbs had tangled, half empty bottles of booze in between their bodies, and Arthur nuzzled the crook of Eames' elbow.

“I can't believe you accidentally mistook a prostitute for your blind date.” Arthur wheezes, his words slurred not only by burning alcohol but because his toes were busy trying to grab Eames' in an unspoken battle of who's feet were going to lie atop the others'. It was distracting.

“Swear on me mum.” Eames said, throwing his free arm up in mock innocence, his other arm pinned beneath the boy's head. Arthur vaguely noted that Eames' hand was stroking lazy shapes between his shoulder-blades.

“That's crazy, what did you do when you got home?” Arthur asked, intrigued with Eames' insane stories of his past when he'd been a Colonel in training and apparently very much wanted by the ladies for this aspect alone.

“Oh, Sweetheart... none of that. That's far too naughty to share with you.” Arthur scoffed and then nipped at the flesh of Eames' biceps. The Brit jumped at the sensation but smiled nonetheless.

“I'm not a kid. Tell me.”

“But you _are_ a ki-” Arthur nipped once more and Eames shouted.

“Fuck! Alright, alright, you little twat.” In the process of Eames' dismay, Arthur was also happy to note he'd won the foot-fight farther down the south of the bed, and his bony feet rested heavily on top of Eames'.

The Colonel leaned a bit closer then, both their heads sharing one pillow (albeit Arthur's rested more on the man's arm). Eames' eyes wavered conspiratorially before he began to talk with a cheeky grin.

“We fucked.”

“What? That's it? You had sex?” Arthur muttered, acting as if he wasn't affected by the thought of Eames sharing the bed with a (quoted by Eames) gorgeous Japanese lady.

The Brit tutted.

“No, no... We _fucked_.” Eames whispered, his lips curling obscenely around the dirty word. As Arthur tried to come up with what was different between having sex and fucking, Eames sneakily brought up a foot and trapped both Arthur's between his'.

The American pouted, but didn't tug because frankly the warmth of the man's skin soothed him.

“Let me elaborate.” Eames said, shifting a bit only to scoot closer to Arthur. The boy had to move his head up onto his bicep then in order to not have his neck bend awkwardly backwards in order to look the man in the eye.

“Please.” Arthur encouraged with mock dryness to his features, which earned him a laugh from Eames. The kid smiled but scowled when the Brit pinched his cheek because of it.

Arthur's breath hitched when Eames hooked a leg behind one of his own -glass bottles in between them clinking at the movement- locking him in place.

“It was all carnal lust... Fucking hard enough to hurt, wanting to hurt, yea?” Arthur blinked, blushing to hear such words being spoken in that gravely voice and that disgustingly charming accent.

“You like to hurt?” Arthur asked a bit confused, ignoring how his heart skipped beats as Eames scraped nails on his back, the sensation prominent even through his shirt.

“Only to pleasure them... well, in the sense of fucking.” Arthur swallowed, his mouth dry and he peered into Eames' grey eyes, trying to read any lies or amusement in them. There was none, only blown pupils and drunken haze.

They were too close. He could feel and smell the alcohol on his breath, could smell his skin's warmth and the musk underneath.

“Tell me.” Arthur said.

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me, in detail, what you did. I don't understand how pain can be a-arousing. Explain, please.” Eames quirked a brow at Arthur's uncertain words and even the boy himself wondered what the hell he was doing.

But he was drunk.  
So drunk and so, so warm. He could feel Eames all around him, they were so close and he was so warm and his body was heavy and the fingers on his back seemed to burn all the way through his spine into his lungs and eventually his heart.

It was hard to breathe, hard to think, and all Arthur wanted was for Eames to never stop talking, to never end the rumble that traveled through his chest, up his throat and out of his mouth only in order to cascade upon the boy's ears and senses.

“I kissed her...” Eames murmured.

“How?” Arthur asked and he licked his lips, noticing Eames tracking the movement with his eyes. The Brit smiled before traveling his eyes back up to Arthur's.

“I devoured her. I licked into her mouth with a sense of desperation that any lady fancies.”

“Did you hold her face?” This time Eames gulped at Arthur's question.

“Yeah, but then I shoved her against the nearest wall and pressed my whole body against hers.”

“Did she feel soft against you?”

“Hm, very soft, yeah.” Eames murmured distractedly and his free hand moved aside when Arthur reached out to poke his tummy.

“Your body's hard.” Arthur declared and boldly allowed his fingertips to drag over Eames' stomach before poking the underlying abs. The Brit audibly inhaled.

“You should stop touching me and focus on my story.” Eames whispered and his voice sounded... well... wrecked, was the right word.

“Why? Is it distracting?”

“It bloody well is.” Eames muttered and gently took Arthur's wrist to drag his hand away. The boy made a mental note to drink more in the future because he felt great, free and bold and so fucking hot.

“What did you do that hurt her?” The boy questioned with a skeptical risen eyebrow. Eames scratched his back then, slow but bitingly hard and Arthur gasped whilst arching away from the hand and inevitably towards the man in front of him.

“That.” Eames smugly said, soothing the scratches with his palm. Arthur wondered vaguely why in heaven's name he felt so excited by what just had happened, his body seemed to be wired tight, like a spring, ready to go loose and shoot off somewhere.

The boy frowned at his own drunken gibberish.

“And this.” Eames continued after a moment and the boy stirred whilst the Brit straightened up on his elbow (Arthur's head scooting back down to his forearm) leaning over and towards him, towards his throat.

“Ah.” Arthur half-moaned and half-gasped when Eames' stubble rubbed against his throat before he sunk his teeth into his flesh. The spark of teeth digging in skin sobered up Arthur in no time. The clogged haze in his mind cleared and though the floaty warmth in his tummy remained, his focus now solely spiraled towards the only point of contact.

“Eam-” The Brit shushed him, his breath moist around the flesh he'd pinned between his teeth. It didn't hurt, but it felt a bit uncomfortable... that was before Arthur noticed that the man's grip increased ever so slowly.

Though, when trying to pull away, he only noticed that Eames bit down harder and it only took two tugs before Arthur realized he had to stay still.

“Eames...” Arthur breathed the man's name for lack of anything better to say than 'stop' or worse; 'harder'.

The pinch of the man's crooked teeth increased and increased and tightened and pinched more and more and more until Arthur believed he felt tears prickling in the back of his nose. But just when Arthur wanted to cry out, shove Eames away, or just beg him to let go... Eames pulled back and released the flesh.

It felt as if his skin seeped back into place, the sensation tingling like tiny fireworks at the release of pressure and increase of blood flow. Arthur was panting but then he choked on a breath when Eames lapped at the bruised skin.

His tongue was searing hot, and so fucking soft it made the boy want to sink away forever. Arthur arched his throat, finally, and couldn't hold back a groan when Eames started to use those plump lips alongside his tongue to soothe the hurt patch of flesh.

The boy had his hands folded into white-knuckled fists, scared he'd grab the man by his hair elsewise... no matter the intention, no matter if he'd push him off or pull him closer... he didn't dare touch Eames and break whatever spell had come over them.

' _Intoxiation_ ' His subconscious supplied.

Eames suckled on his throat, lewd sounds be damned, for what seemed ages but then not long enough before pulling back.

Arthur's eyes had closed somewhere during the ministrations and he didn't dare look at Eames who he could feel was watching him from his spot on the bed again.  
The boy had to forcefully slow down his breathing and heartbeat.

_He felt so hot._

“Do you want me to take care of that?” Eames asked and if his voice had sound ruined before, it now sounded like a fucking train wreck.

Arthur still kept his eyes closed, though he frowned and wasn't pleased to note his voice shivering when talking.

“T-take care of w-what?” A silence followed and he felt Eames move, heard his clothes rustle, the bottles clink, before something hot and heavy cradled Arthur's crotch.

He jumped, his eyes flashing open and he instinctively grabbed Eames' wrist, trying to pull his hand away from his crotch.  
Eames shushed him gently, squeezing more tightly, not painfully but enough to let Arthur know he had a grip on his very-sensitive parts. It took another two seconds before the kid realized he was rock-hard in his pants and probably had been for quite some time.

“We're friends, Arthur... Friends take care of one another.” Eames whispered and it was a slight comfort to see the flush on his cheeks and hear the sound of his dry throat when he gulped. Eames was obviously as much affected by all of this as Arthur was.

“I'm not your Master, not anymore and... so... if you don't want this, okay... I just want to let you know there's nothing wrong with this.” Arthur's fingers on Eames' wrist tightened their hold but he couldn't hold back the moan that slipped through his agape lips when the Brit kneaded his balls and the base of his length through the thin fabric of his pants.

“I really want to help you, Arthur.” Eames whispered then, his brow furrowed as if he was in deep pain, and perhaps he was, in some perverted way.

It was hard for Arthur to think, what with all his blood having moved downstairs and the buzz of alcohol clogging his brain. A tiny part of him knew he'd regret this in the morning, but a greater part told him this is what he'd wanted for a while now... This is what he unintentionally had fantasized about when jerking off in the shower... multiple times, until he'd given up not thinking of Eames when finding sexual release. Because denying the fantasies would disable his ability to get off, whereas allowing Eames to roam his thoughts would set the kid off in record time.

He was drunk... Eames was drunk... they couldn't be helped or bothered...

With a little nod Arthur let go of Eames wrist and the man groaned whilst biting his lip and closing his eyes.

“Oh Arthur, Darling... I'll make it so good for you.” Eames whispered breathlessly before he shifted his hand and started to gently stroke the palm of his hand over Arthur's clothed erection. The boy panted once, short, a sigh of sorts but reversed and the sound made Eames shudder.

There was a part of him that didn't want to cave and he managed to lie stiffly (no innuendo intented) next to Eames for about ten seconds. But then the man did something wicked with his hand, something in his wrist, a flick maybe, a thumb brushing over the head of his clothed cock and Arthur couldn't help but choke on an intake of breath and roll onto his back slowly.

“Good boy. Just look at you...” Eames mumbled somewhere above him, Arthur had closed his eyes again, but his legs spread nonetheless to allow the man easier access.

“Christ...” He heard Eames curse and Arthur downright purred when the Colonel buried his face in his throat, his muscular body one long line of heat to his left. The man's left leg threw itself over Arthur's thigh, pinning it to the mattress and Eames' ambidextrousness blessed him to find no problem in rubbing Arthur off with his left hand, his right one unlocalized until it found a fistful of hair on top of Arthur's head and pulled.

Arthur moaned, loud, and then arched his throat for Eames' searching lips.

“You can't believe how long I've been wanting to do this to you...” The man whispered, lips brushing against the boy's skin as they moved around the words.

“I've been wanting to devour you ever since you sat so meekly at my feet and made Dom so jealous of me.” The Brit seemed to continue to murmur the most intimate thoughts to Arthur's neck before a shivering inhale of the latter shut him up.

This felt too good. Having to listen to that disgustingly gorgeous voice only sparked the boy's arousal up to the point where he unintentionally started to grind into the Brit's hand.

As Eames sucked and nipped and licked his throat, as his hand rubbed circles on his crotch, his fingers following and squeezing his length-  
As Eames' hips shallowly bucked against Arthur's side, a hardness poking against his hipbone, and as his voice murmured the most filthiest things Arthur had ever heard...  
The American couldn't care less about what the hell had happened to cause this. He didn't care that this wasn't supposed to happen. He didn't care that Eames was English, that he was American, didn't care if the war was over or not, didn't even so much care that this man was over a decade older, had stolen his freedom, had indirectly and directly abused him in the past, had fed him and himself drunk... he just...

Arthur didn't care because nothing could beat the heart-gripping, lung-wrenching and stomach-burning sensation of having this man do ungodly things to him in order to get him off. To please him. To please _him_.

“Eames-” Arthur sobbed dryly, his left arm curling under and around the man in order to wrap his fingers in his brown hair, shoving his face closer in his neck. The boy's hips bucked, his ass lifting from the bed just to get more friction and he wondered idly why Eames wasn't taking off his pants or underwear or at least bury a hand underneath the clothes. Anything to get rid of the agonizing burn of the fabric's friction against his sensitive skin.

“What is it, Pet? What is it?” The fact that when Eames called him 'pet' made Arthur's dick twitch harshly probably wasn't a good sign, but fuck it, it all felt too good to question.

“Please...” Arthur whined and then felt relieved when Eames increased the pressure of his hand on his bulge. But it wasn't enough.

Arthur tried desperately to make the man understand what he wanted without telling him. He just needed more... more... so much more. And thus Arthur thrust his hips up into the man's hand, arched his back and throat, gripped the man's hair painfully tight, whined and dug the balls of his feet into the mattress just to get more pressure, somewhere, _anywhere_.

“Tell me what you want, Arthur.” Eames whispered and Arthur _felt_ the smirk rather than heard it. Curse this man for playing games even when piss-drunk and fuck-horny (if the hardness poking Arthur's side was anything to go by).

The boy remembered suddenly that he had another hand and he slapped it over Eames', pushing it painfully hard into his crotch and rubbing off against both their hands. Eames, serving him right, groaned animalistically, as if in rage caused by pain.

He couldn't come. It was too hot, he was sweating, panting, his heart fluttering, he was too drunk, his clothes were too uncomfortable, the scent of Eames too smothering, the pressure of their hands not enough through the fabric of his pants, it just wasn't enough.

Arthur needed more, something more.

“Please Eames, fuck-”Arthur whined some more and then gasped, stiffening when the man bit down on his throat, hard and brutal, teeth digging deep enough to draw blood.

And that's what he'd needed. That was what had been missing.  
This sharp pain to accommodate his arousal, to push it off the cliff it had been bordering on.  
  
It hurt like hell but it set him off and before Arthur knew what happened, his orgasm pulsed through him, hit him like a ton of bricks, unexpected and painfully hard.

He arched from the mattress and Eames seemed to bite even harder, it took Arthur's breath away and seemed to not only knock the breath out of his lungs but as well punch his orgasm right through his veins. Every muscle in his body tightened and stilled, including his heart, his orgasm spurting in harsh wet strands inside his pants before he dropped back down and after-shocked through the climax.

It had been the most painful and pleasurable orgasm of his life and it took him many minutes before realizing Eames had indeed showed him what he'd meant with 'hurting to cause pleasure'.

His heart still thumped loudly in his ears and his chest still heaved even when Eames returned (when he'd left or how long Arthur had been on the bed, breathing through his post-orgasm was unknown to the kid) with a clean pair of sweatpants and a washing cloth. (and an intimidating tent in his slacks)

Arthur scoffed humorlessly though he couldn't yet move away.

“Are you alright?” Eames asked and started to inspect the boy's throat, tilting his chin away and then sprouting anti-septics from somewhere behind his back.

“Fine.” Arthur said, though he wasn't sure about that answer. Either way he let Eames take care of the bite marks which apparently _had_ drawn blood. It wasn't until Eames moved to unbutton Arthur's pants, that the latter sat upright quickly.  
The alcohol made him sway for a moment but he came back to his senses in a second and then grabbed the sweatpants from Eames' hand.

“I can take care of myself.” Arthur hissed, a bright blush on his cheeks and a heavy stone in his stomach now that he realized what the hell had happened.  
Had he just been raped? Hardly... it wasn't like Eames and he were cat and dog anymore... yet it still was very eerie to realize he'd just had experienced some sort of sex-act with the man. With Eames, the Brit, the Colonel... the enemy.

Arthur didn't care about this as much as he'd hoped to and though he went into the bathroom (slamming the door shut rather harshly), locking himself in it for the rest of the night, he couldn't find it within himself to loathe Eames for what he'd done that same night.

* * *

 

 


	40. I Don't Want to Wake Up on My Own Anymore

**Chapter 40**

_\- I Don't Want to Wake Up on My Own Anymore -_

  
  


First things first.

Eames was one-hundred percent sure he'd never woken up with such a gnarly, demonic spawn of a hangover before as he did today. He as well was pretty sure it'd never happen again, if it did... he doubted he'd survive.

Second thing the Colonel noticed was the lack of a warm body in his arms or curled around one of his limbs. He would open his eyes to have a peek and find out where the boy was at but... well... his brain felt that it might explode the second he'd move the tiniest muscle.

“Never. Drinking. Again.” The Brit murmured to himself before finding courage enough to roll onto his back and flail his arm to his left in search of Arthur. He repeated the action with his right arm and against better judgment tried again with both of his legs.

“Arthur...” He growled before memories of last night began seeping into his mind.

More and more images shoved themselves ruthlessly into the man's brain and after half a minute he recalled EVERYTHING.

“Fuck.” The man groaned before getting up slowly, ignoring his dizziness as well as the urge to empty his insides, and then turning on the bedside lamp. He got up after a few seconds recollecting the scrambled bits of his brain and made way to the bathroom, the last room he'd seen the kid disappear into last night.

“Arthur?” Eames called, regretting how his voice seemed to knife itself through his skull and eyeballs. He instead optioned to gently knock on the door.   
Five knocks later he opened the door and peeked inside.

Arthur, bless his little stubborn heart, was lying in the bathtub, covered in various towels which served as an improvised duvet. He was asleep, curled into a ball and breathing softly. Eames could only imagine how harsh the alcohol must hit him when he'd wake up.

Not ready yet to re-evaluate last night and face the fact he'd pretty much molested an underage, drunken kid, Eames optioned to leave his chambers after having put a glass of water and some pain-killers on the sink in the bathroom.

* * *

  
  


Well, the war was over, or as much as a war could be over and done with.

England together with Japan had won, America licking its wounds and retreating with whatever they had left after the years-long battle. Which, in all honesty, wasn't much.

The next couple of days would be tediously spent alongside Colonels, Generals and any other high-stand men, including Saito.  
Eames wasn't looking forward to seeing the Jap again, after all he'd gotten into quite a big fight with him many months ago.

Even if Arthur had been good at lying, the Brit would still have found out about the truth of Saito having threatened and hurt him. Frankly, there hadn't been a hair on his head that would consider not confronting Saito about this knowledge, his own safety be damned.

Saito, had admitted to the facts with a feigned calm which on its turn had aggravated Eames to the point where he'd seized his boss by the collar, shoved him up a wall and with a finger pointing at his face had hissed that he was to leave 'Joe' alone if he didn't want Eames to screw over their own military.

If Saito had been shocked by those words, Eames had been absolutely stunned.

After that incident, it seemed to have waved into a water-under-the-bridge scenario and it never got mentioned again, and as far as Eames knew, Saito hadn't contacted Arthur nor had Arthur found out Eames knew about the whole thing.

It was all for the best. It wasn't good for the kid to know that much. Eames wasn't ready to admit to himself that he'd chosen a boy above his own country, let alone admit it to said boy.

“Mr Eames?” Woken from his thoughts, Eames focused back on the meeting he was in.

Saito quirked a brow at him from the other end of the table and Eames nodded, waving a hand for him to continue and mumbling an apology.  
The meeting had been going on for hours now, the small room mostly filled by0 a huge table and about a dozen men, English, Japanese and one lost Russian.  
They all looked knackered but pleased, the atmosphere was loose, a bit more relaxed than it would've been were the war still waging. That being said, Saito did demand full attention from his men which Eames hadn't been putting out this day, nor previous ones in the past months.

Not to mention, his thoughts kept wandering back home, where he knew Arthur was sleeping in his bloody bathtub and uncurling into a massive hangover. He probably was awake by now. Eames had left nearly six hours ago and wouldn't be back home for another eight... He wondered deeply what would happen seeing the boy again after... after last night.

Just thinking about it made his stomach knot and palms sweat.  
Just remembering Arthur's sounds, those little gasps that eventually turned to needy mewls and growls.... it was maddening. Eames was sure he'd never forget those noises, nor would he ever come to have the visions of the boy's arched body and bright-pink lips, that little frown creasing his forehead and bridge of his nose, that blush that crept from his neck to his cheekbones to the tips of his damn out-sticking ears, ever EVER disappear from his retina.

His trousers felt more tight just recalling those details and it was only the memory of Arthur squeezing his hand as he pushed it harshly against his own bulge, that took Eames breath away.   
The boy had allowed Eames to touch him, and then had craved to be touched more, _harder_.  
And then, the thing that made the Brit weak to his knees, Arthur hadn't been able to get off until Eames had hurt him, had sunk his teeth into his lovely scenting-and lovely tasting flesh. Arthur hadn't shivered and stuttered into orgasm until Eames had drawn blood...  
All those aspects made the Colonel desire to devour the boy... He wanted more, much more, he wanted _everything_.  
Like a shark who'd smelled blood, he now was starving for the feast. It would never be enough, Eames couldn't imagine that he'd ever get enough of Arthur, no matter if the boy would give him everything...

The rest of the meeting continued with an awkward boner underneath the table and Eames couldn't wait to get home that night, no matter if Arthur would be angry or not.  
He needed to see the boy, at least hear him, or smell him, anything.

* * *

  
  


His lack of guilt for having fondled a sixteen-year old should be worrisome, but then he'd spent a year living with the kid, they'd been drunk and well... Arthur's past and living in the current world did age one rapidly.

Excuses.

All excuses, Eames knew, but couldn't be bothered to guilt-trip over something Arthur had thoroughly enjoyed.

Of course the boy was angry when Eames returned home.

“Ello, Love.” Eames smiled thinly, pausing mid-step to inspect whether Arthur was planning to jump him and strangle him to death or not.

The American was sitting in the middle of the bed, arms crossed and a grumpy pout on his beautiful face.

It was ten in the night, Eames was tired, was sure he had bags underneath his hazed eyes, and thus he proceeded to take of his visor hat and coat, tossing them carelessly on the dresser to his right.

“Why did you run?” Arthur asked out of nowhere and Eames paused, his fingers knotted in his tie.

“Excuse me?” He asked with a tiny frown, continuing to undo his tie before bending over to his shoes.

“You ran away today.”

“I just spared you the awkward morning-after. I didn't run.” Eames mumbled before giving up on his laces and instead toeing his Oxfords off. It was Arthur's favourite pair, and he did glance at them for a split second.

“You left when I needed you most.” His voice was soft, which was what made Eames look up more than the actual words themselves.

Arthur wasn't angry, such as he'd thought when walking inside.  
Arthur was hurt.

The corner of the American's mouth twitched which Eames knew meant he was unsure of his words or unsure of how he'd react. The Brit slowly leaned against the dresser behind him, looking out over the bed, at Arthur.

“I felt very unsure when I woke up this morning.” Arthur said, frowning a bit and rubbing his arm awkwardly. The boy looked tiny on Eames' huge bed, he looked small and young and so unsure and so sensitive and fragile... Eames didn't think he'd ever seen the boy like this. He didn't think he'd ever witnessed Arthur opening up to him like this; vulnerable (not even last night).

“We're friends now, right?” Arthur asked and Eames nodded.

“Friends support each other, stick together, no?”

“They do.” Eames replied, his voice as calm as possible even though it trembled in his chest because what the fuck was this, then? Bloody Arthur going all melodramatic on him?

“I'm sorry.” The Brit said then, gripping the dresser behind him to stop himself from walking towards Arthur because he was still unsure of what the boy wanted of him.

The kid nodded, accepting the apology, whether it was for today or last night, and then looked to his right.

Eames stomach jumped at the sight of the massive bruise on Arthur's throat. The dents of teeth were visible even from this distance, before the boy's fingers covered it, shielding it away unconsciously.

“I'm sorry I took advantage of you.” Eames muttered then, wincing along with Arthur as he prodded the bruise on his throat.

The boy slyly glanced at him from the corner of his eye and a tiny smirk crawled onto his lips.

“Are you really?”

“To some degree, yes.”

“I'm not a child, Eames. Even if drunk, I still know how to say 'no'.” Eames wasn't sure if that was true but instead optioned to push himself away from the furniture behind him and tread towards the bed, drawn to Arthur like a moth to a flame.

“So, what was it then?” Arthur asked, shifting a bit as Eames came closer and the Brit noticed how he licked his lips whilst looking up at him with observant eyes.

“What was what, Arthur? Specificity, please, Darling.” Eames smirked around the joke and Arthur scowled beautifully.

“Last night.” Arthur didn't scoot over when Eames sat down on the bed and their hips and upper-legs touched when the Brit settled next to him. The line of their shoulders and upper-arms as well rested against the other and after a moment Arthur rested his head on Eames' shoulder.

“I helped you out.” Eames spoke softly, allowing his cheek to nuzzle itself onto the crown of Arthur's head.

“That's it?” Eames smiled at the question of the boy, allowing a pause to tense the silence.

“Well, whatever did you want it to be, then?” Arthur stirred a bit and the Brit could nearly feel him pout.

“Nothing, I just... I was just a little bit confused, is all. I didn't want you to be upset about it because I'm not upset about it either, you know?”

“I understand, Arthur.”

“So, can we...?”

“Can we what?” The Brit asked as Arthur shifted a bit and Eames pulled back so they could look at each other. The boy's eyes flickered towards Eames' lips, but only for a split second.

“Can we go sleep now?” Eames smiled at that, happy to note that the boy wasn't upset about what had happened and perversely pleased to be a witness of the boy's 'subtle' interest in Eames (well, at least his lips).

“Yeah, Darling, let's go sleep.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm stuck again...


	41. A Shyness That is Criminally Vulgar

**SUPER EARLY UPDATE BECAUSE 600 KUDOS YOU GUYS!!!**

_THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU_

****  
Special thanks to[seekthemist](http://seekthemist.tumblr.com) for reminding me of Arthur's love for books!  
 _(I've been writing this crap for so long I keep forgetting important events that happened in the past of this story)_

Warnings: naughty footsie-games

* * *

**  
**   


  
**Chapter 41** _(i think)_   


_A shyness that is criminally vulgar_

 

_February, 2053 (approximately one year later)_

  
  


“Stop it, Arthur.” Eames muttered under his breath, trying desperately to read as the boy busied himself with obnoxious talents.

“Arthur...” He warned once more.

“But, I'm so bored, Eames. Entertain me.” The man stirred at the American's whine, probably aware by now of the advantage Arthur had, what with his puppy-eyes and dimples and messy hair.

Even when a year older, he was still Eames' weak-spot.

With another sigh Eames dumped his book onto his lap before arching his neck until the back of his head rested on the edge of the bed, his hands planted on the floor to keep his back straight.  
Arthur just grinned as the movement caused Eames to end up with a face full of foot.

“God damn it, Arthur.” He muttered against the sole of his naked foot, his stubble tickled as it scraped against the sensitive skin.

“What is it you want?” Arthur rolled his eyes at that question, being sure Eames knew exactly what he wanted when he had his foot planted on his face whilst his other leg was busy rubbing its calve over the man's shoulder and chest.

“Come on, Eames... You know what I want.”

“I'm not going to give you another foot-massage, Pet, already gave you five this week alone...” Eames spoke with a huff, as if honestly he couldn't handle another foot-rub. As if he wouldn't appreciate the opportunity to fondle the boy's instep and toes and heel (if lucky; his ankle).

Arthur scooted closer to the edge of the bed until his legs straddled themselves around the man's shoulders, and then proceeded to bury his fingers into his short hair, scratching his head as he looked down at him.

Eames hummed, the sound rumbling from his chest.

“Four to be exact and as if you wouldn't want to do another. Besides... that's not what I want.” Eames quirked a brow, squinting when Arthur poked his eye-lid.

“What then? You _need a hand_ , hm?” He asked and Arthur answered with scooting even closer and rubbing his clothed hardness against the top of Eames' head. The Brit seemed to be torn between troubled and aroused.

“Again?”

“What? Am I wearing you out, old man?” The boy teased, knowing that pulling out the 'old man' card would motivate Eames to take action and prove himself and thus, inevitably, please Arthur.

They'd been doing this for the past year.

Not much had happened... just, more flirting and then occasionally they'd give each other a hand. It was an outlet of sorts, get rid of the stress by masturbating one another, or dry-humping, or just downright smelling each other, groaning and whispering the filthiest things in each other's ears until one of them would've rubbed their self to orgasm on the other's thigh.

It was fun, innocent as much as there was innocence left in their relationship.  
But it seemed that the older Arthur got, that the more he grew and the heavier his voice became, the easier it was for Eames to let go of his guilt-tripping and occasional 'I used a child' anxiety outbursts (the last of which had occurred five months ago).

They never had kissed.

Kissing was... well... that was something completely different.

“I had an awfully long day at work, Arthur.” A lie, Eames had spend all day lazing around, enjoying his holiday with smokes and food and sleep. They were role-playing. They'd done this many times before where Eames would feign disinterest and would make Arthur work for it. Arthur loved this, craved to work and be a bit dominant only in order to be subdued pretty soon after.

He enjoyed driving the man mad.

He enjoyed Eames... a lot.

“Work, work, work. It's always work with you, Mr. Eames.” Arthur dramatically complained. Eames shrugged, picking up the book from his lap and sitting back up, starting to read.

The line of his shoulders was broad and tense, filled with anticipation and Arthur took a minute to just rub his hands over the muscles, squeezing them and groaning under his breath at the strength he felt there. His head dipped minutely when Arthur rubbed both his thumbs up the nape of his neck.

He scooted even closer, his arousal heavy against the back of the man's neck-to-spine bone, and as he steadied his hands on the top of the Brit's head, he then slowly slid both of his feet down the man's arms.

Eames stirred, though kept faking as if the book was more interesting than Arthur's soles curling around his biceps downwards to his underarms until eventually he playfully patted his toes on the pages of the book.

“I can't read like thi-” The words cut short when Arthur's right foot wiggled underneath the book and instead found a warm spot on Eames' clothed crotch.

He was hard. _Very_ hard.

The man inhaled loudly, but maintained his role. Arthur in the meanwhile moaned under his breath, fingers massaging the man's scalp as his right foot rubbed and grind down on the Brit's arousal, his toes squeezing harshly.

“Bloody hell, Arthur...” Eames whispered, his voice more of a scrape than anything else as he tossed the book aside and planted his hands firmly on his thighs, his ankles crossed as he was seated in Indian position. Arthur's hands traveled down the nape of his thick neck and optioned to rub themselves over Eames' chest as his foot made sure to massage the bulge almost cruelly hard through the thick jeans.

“You keep that up and I'll come in my trousers like a teenage boy.” The ex-Colonel declared before his hand found Arthur's unoccupied left foot and brought it up carefully.

“That's my job.” Arthur wittily commented, vaguely being thankful for his agility which allowed Eames to mouth at his foot that he had pulled up, held in his large hand.

“Hm.” Was all he said and this was Arthur's green light because when Eames would hum rather than cheekily remark... he was far-gone.

“Undo your pants.” The boy whispered, ignoring the strain in his left thigh for the sake of experiencing Eames' plump lips working his toes and instep.

“Trousers.” The Brit corrected before undoing his fly with his free hand and Arthur wasted no time in wriggling his foot inside the clothing. Eames, the bastard, of course wasn't wearing any underwear and they both gasped (one of them hissed but Arthur didn't quite remember who) when the sole of his warm foot rubbed over velvety hardness.

“You're such a naughty bugger, Arthur.” The man murmured, words spilling whenever he was aroused to a particular no-return point.   
Arthur was more the silent type, optioned to frown and pant and whine all the way through.

“Yeah.” Was all he was able to breathe as his toes wriggled over the base of Eames' cock, the sole of his foot covering the arch of it with warmth and pressure. Eames let go of the boy's foot and Arthur immediately dropped it onto his thigh, rubbing over the jeans until Eames' fingers started to curl around his ankle, squeezing and massaging the bone.

“Christ.” Eames let out on an exhale, bucking his hips up into the foot trapped between his cock and his pants.

Arthur was as much turned on as Eames was and found himself panting and whispering encouraging 'yeah's and 'fuck's when Eames dug a hand into his pants, grabbing Arthur's instep and rubbing himself off against the sole.

His left hand's fingers tightened their grip around the boy's ankle, keeping his foot onto his thigh, keeping a hold on anything stable in order to rock into irregular ups and downs, breathing harshly.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Arthur, fuck.” The boy could only nod and whine encouragingly. He felt Eames' pre-cum slick the motion of their rubbing skins and 'cheekily' (as Eames would call it) Arthur started to repeatedly squeeze his toes over the head of his cock whenever reaching it.

And he loved Eames like this.

He loved to shake the man's grounds, loved to see him this vulnerable, loved to hear that already-raspy voice crack into noiselessness when he got this aroused and he only got this aroused by the hands of Arthur.

Arthur was doing these filthy things to Eames which brought the man to his knees, which blew his world away even if for only a moment.  
And Arthur reveled not only in the power, but as well the sin.

He was rendering all-knowing, arrogant Eames speechless and that was a sight to behold and cherish.

Eames came unexpectedly, a shout falling from his lips and his stomach tensing as his hips pushed up into Arthur's foot. Arthur cursed (not _only_ because Eames loved to hear him say dirty words) when feeling the hot wetness of his seed spill against the sole of his foot and between his toes when it slid down.

It took the man a long time to recollect himself. They spent at least a whole minute in the same position. Eames panting and Arthur just moaning quietly as he tried to stroke his toes over Eames' softening, slick lenght. The Brit just held on to his ankle, though, too sensitive to experience any more friction.

“I really want to suck you.” Eames whispered then, and the words were heavy in the silence.

They'd never given each other oral, maybe the same story as the kissing... it was just very intimate, very... out there.

Arthur's erection twitched happily at the thought of having Eames' full lips wrapped around it but there was something that stopped him from agreeing to it.

“I need a shower.” Arthur mumbled. Eames didn't reply for a moment and Arthur knew he was considering whether to let the rejection slide or not.

“A foot-bath more like it, yea.” The man chuckled, arching his neck and looking up at Arthur.

Eames smiled and when Arthur returned the smile, he winked at him before sitting back up and awkwardly helping his foot out of his pants and helping him skip one-legged towards the bathroom.

* * *

  
  


Eames ended up being shameless enough to ask if he could watch Arthur jerk off in the shower and Arthur, with a scowl, agreed as he stuck his sticky foot under the spray of water.

All that event caused though, was Eames growing hard once more and well, they ended up rubbing themselves off against each other's bodies. The motion was slick with water and soap and Arthur nearly lost it when Eames grabbed his ass in both hands and squeezed as his whole body pressed him harder against the tiled wall.

The boy, grown taller in the past year, was able to mouth at Eames' collarbones, gasping as he frantically rubbed his erection against the man's hip, his nails digging into shoulder-blades. Eames proceeded to grind his cock against Arthur's lower-belly and it all felt so dirty, so desperate that Arthur came with a most embarrassingly-loud cry.

Eames followed straight after, trembling through his second orgasm with a tiny whine and Arthur loved how his thick body weighed heavily against him, nearly choking him to the wall.

“I really love that we're friends.” Eames muttered, his lips mouthing Arthur's shoulder before moving left and up his throat. Arthur arched it immediately.

“Yeah. Me too.” The boy smiled, vaguely recalling how they'd used to be, how he used to hate him, how he used to be so afraid and angry...

Eames had told him from the beginning that he had 'saved' him. That being removed from the freedom of the streets had been his blessing and that he'd come to see how genuine Eames was when he told him he'd take care of him and protect him and well...

Now, two years later, Arthur finally understood and finally could agree.

Eames had been honest from the start, aside from some white lies, he had done what he'd promised. Eames, the old Arthur would never admit but the current one did, was the best thing that could've happened to him in his young life.

* * *

  
  


“I used to watch Westerns with my dad.” Arthur spoke around a piece of pineapple.

“Our favourite was one with this actor called Eastwood.” Eames hummed, notifying Arthur he'd heard about him.

“Do you miss films?” The Brit asked then, subtly taking pieces of fruit from the bowl which Arthur liked least. Eames often did this, often ate what Arthur wouldn't like as much, often would act as if he was full in order to give some leftovers to Arthur who in his adolescence ate like a monster.

The kid nodded, crossing his legs which were stretched out in front of him as his back rested against pillows.

“I haven't seen movies since I was about five, I think. I hardly remember the movies themselves but I recall it always being fun-time with dad.” Eames nodded and watched as Arthur carefully bit a grape in half before suckling it.

“Do they still exist?” The boy questioned.

Eames leaned back against the pillows, sitting next to Arthur on the bed, and folded his hands on his tummy.

“Barely.” He replied and a comfortable silence followed.

“But, they're out there. I'll have a lookout for the hardware, maybe bring home a film some day.” Arthur smiled at that, knowing that it would be very unlikely even for Eames to find a VHS- or DVD-player nowadays.   
It was the thought that counted, though.

“I really like it when you smile.” Eames confessed and Arthur shyly glanced at him from the corner of his eye.

“I want to make you smile... a lot.” Arthur's heart skipped a couple of beats by those words and he lowered the half-eaten grape, acting as if he was looking at it as he held it.

“You do.” Arthur muttered with a blush, feeling self-conscious whenever Eames serenaded about his dimples or his eyes or rebellious curls.

“Not wholesomely.” The Brit said before planting the bowl of fruits into Arthur's lap and then leaping from the bed.

Arthur's eyes followed Eames as he strolled through the room, he observed the line of his shoulders which rolled underneath suspenders and the crisp-white fabric of his button-up. Arthur noted the tan on the Brit's skin which contrasted with the lightness of the rolled up sleeves. The boy as well noted the thick lines of his thighs when he strutted around, and strutting he always did... the man had an odd o-legged walk which would look ridiculous on anyone else but on Eames, well... It just worked.   
Everything about the man worked. The crooked teeth, the too-full lips, the light eyes, the dark-blond strands of hair which -when not waxed flatly onto his skull- would cow-lick into every direction; untamed as himself.   
Eames was a very handsome man and though Arthur was sure he hadn't as big of a weak-spot for Eames as Eames did for him, he also was aware he felt more than just plain lust and friendship for this man.

It wasn't love.

But came dangerously close to it, nonetheless.

“There's not a lot in this world that makes me smile wholesomely, Eames.” Arthur replied, watching the Brit take one of the cigarettes Arthur had rolled for him earlier that day.

“I figured as much.” Eames smiled around the cigarette before he lit it. Arthur didn't feel insulted by that... after all they were just stating the truth.

“Read me a book.” The boy impulsively requested, feeling a need to cheer up Eames. The man didn't seem too upset but Arthur knew that the crush he had on him made him crave to make Arthur happy. And well... why would Arthur deny the man that?

“A book?”

“Yes.”

“Now?” He frowned through an exhale of smoke.

“Yeah sure.” Arthur smiled before lewdly popping a cherry into his mouth, knowing Eames would catch up on the unspoken pun and innuendo in no time.

“Cheeky bugger.” Eames grinned, easily distracted from his infatuated near-love-confession.

“Which one?”

Arthur pursed his lips around the cherry before pulling it out with the stem.

“Something by Oscar Wilde, please.”

“'Something by Oscar Wilde' he says-.” Eames muttered under his breath, acting as if he was annoyed by the boy's lack of 'imagination' and 'childish playfulness' even though he now was busying himself with the act of making out with fruits.

“I'll go fetch one, you just stay-” Eames paused, his hands pointed with their palms to Arthur in a motion that urged him to keep still.

“You just stay like that... That's perfect.” The Brit grinned once more before turning on his heels to go to his office.

“Pervert.” Arthur muttered with a smirk, digging his teeth into another cherry and reveling in Eames' amused, rumbling laughter as he strolled outside the bedroom in order to get Arthur his book.

* * *

  
  


The night ended up with being read five pages before Eames' voice drove Arthur mad and they jumped one another, hands fumbling with zippers and mouths slotted on throats and shoulders and collarbones and jaw-lines but never lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still Ill would never be where it is now if it weren't for all of you guys! And I'm not just saying this because it's a polite thing to say... No, I'm serious.  
> I need to hear my readers, need to see my readers loving this through kudo's and reviews in order to keep myself motivated to write.
> 
> So, this is all thanks to you guys.  
> ALL of it.
> 
> THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU


	42. This Night Has Opened My Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: public sex, bareback, alcohol abuse, a lot of angst and broken hearts

  
**Chapter** 42  
 _This Night Has Opened My Eyes_  


  
  


Bumping into Saito (quite literally so) after not having seen him for at least a trimester, wasn't a welcoming surprise.

Though they'd swiped the whole 'You choked Joe' thing under the carpet, there were still some suspicions left on Eames' side and he was sure there were some left on the Japanese man's side as well.

The end of the war had meant the end of an era and though Saito was still considered the current leader of Britain's bonds with Japan, he was losing power slowly but gradually.  
Eames had resined his position as Colonel, Jack taking his place after some forging of documentation and the promise that if the war would kick back up, he oughta sign back the position to Eames (if he didn't want his balls chopped off with a rusty spoon).  
  
But so far, with Saito oblivious to the deal between Jack and Eames, everything had paced along calmly.

Eames didn't miss the position of Colonel, though it took away various rights and a lot of power, and didn't certify his safety any longer. At least he'd gotten rid of the spying eyes of Saito. Well, so he assumed.

“Mr. Eames, what a delightful surprise.” The lord smiled broadly, he looked tired and Eames noted that he'd gotten a golden canine. The Brit doubted it being a 'surprise', as if Saito so happened to have bumped into him by pure coincidence.

“Likewise, Lord Saito.” The Brit returned the smile and a handshake followed before the taller man pulled him into a quick embrace. Very unlike Saito...

“Let's catch up somewhere, yes?” He requested and Eames, in position of Lieutenant, truly had very little right left to refuse the offer.

“What brings you back to London?” Eames asked as they paced through the streets which were much more lively than they had been years ago, though children and women still were advised to stay indoors at night as the army hadn't forgotten about the rebellious citizens in the past and would tread through the alleyways, armed, when the sun set.

“Business.”

“Business?”

Saito nodded, his lips a thin line as he dug his hands deeper into the pockets of his double-breasted coat.

“Some problems, Sir?”

“There's been a sneak-attack by the Russians.” Eames blinked at that, not sure what he'd just heard. It came as a complete surprise to hear that one of their companion-countries had stabbed them in the back a year after the war had been as good as settled.

“Where?”

“Manchester.” Saito replied, his voice almost overpowered by the Westminster Chime of Big Ben which rang through the city, a few children in the distance hummed along the tune, skipping around as their worried mothers kept their eyes on soldiers passing by.

“That's not far away.”

“That's the worrisome part, isn't it? We're expecting an attack on London, next.” Eames felt his blood grow cold and his stomach sink. He should've known everything had been too good to be true.

Calm before the storm.

“We need to rebuild the army, Mr. Eames, and only you as a Colonel can get back our unbeatable military.” Saito declared, slowing down his pace.

“Jack is Britain's Co-”

“Jack won't do. That boy will lead us to our deaths in no time. We need you, Eames.” Saito had stopped in his tracks abruptly, instead looking straight at Eames who could no longer avoid his piercing eyes.

There was an odd uncertainty, a weakness to his face that caught Eames' attention more than his words ever had. Saito _needed_ him.

“And I need you to get rid of that boy you've still been sneaking around with. He weakens you.” Saito's face hardly remained as blank as his voice did and this made his words seem all the more sincere, his desperation more honest.

Eames gnawed his bottom-lip minutely, trying to get over the cold sweat of finding out Saito knew he'd kept his pet, even when the war had been over and there had been no need for pets, let alone acts of homosexuality.

“I assure you, Sir, that the boy has no influe-”

“Nonsense, Eames!” The man snapped his mouth shut and stared at Saito who'd narrowed his eyes to the point where he couldn't tell if they were still open or not. Most likely they were.   
As well the fact he'd shouted, had shut up Eames.  
People avoided them on the streets, walking around them in wide arches, noticing the clothing of military on both their bodies, noting the weaponry on them. Certainly they as well sensed the aggravated aura sprouting from their bodies.

“You can't even hide your expressions any longer, Eames. You bite your lip, you tense your jaw, widen your eyes, fold hands into fists, shift on your legs, look away, then look down, stroke a hand over your head...” Saito paused, letting the words sink into Eames.

“You used to be excellent at deceiving people. You found no difficulty lying for your own benefit. You used to be cold-hearted, cold-blooded, ready to fight anyone for your country, for what you believe in, stand for and love. You are not the man you used to be, Mr. Eames... And you and I both know who is the cause of this.”

Eames' mouth opened and closed a couple of times, his brain felt buzzed with the words, as if reality was finally elbowing its way back to his conscious.

“We've had this conversation before, Sir, I can-”

“I will not tolerate again of you to chose a mere pet above your own country, above your leader, the man who's raised you as his son, who's saved your life. I will not tolerate of you to burn Britain's flag with the fires that Joe ignites within you. With fires that are not worth to consume you wholy.” Another long pause followed, Saito granting him the time to think as his head was dizzy with the cold and the words and the realizations that yes, Arthur _had_ weakened him.

It hit him like a ten-ton truck.

Since Arthur, Eames had doubted his past, present and future. Since Arthur he'd come to doubt his leader. Since Arthur he'd come to grow cold for the land that was his home.  
 _Because_ of Arthur, Eames had lost sight and direction. Had become confused, irrational, emotional.

Had become everything he had been before he'd fallen under Saito's wings. A mere, scared, kind-hearted boy.

It was like a bomb exploding in his brain, dropping down to implode in his chest and he visibly cringed at the reality.

Arthur had used him. Bloody Arthur had brainwashed him.  
The boy had gone from angry and vengeful to a meek, little vixen over the past years. He'd been subtle about it, but it was clear now... It was clear the American had found a different way to get back at his enemy.

Fighting hadn't worked and thus he'd optioned to seduce him, to make him grow fond of him, to make him like him and focus on him and him alone. Arthur had drawn Eames' attention to him so hard that the Brit's back had inevitably gotten turned to what he should be focusing on; England, the English, he himself, an Englishman.

All the pieces of the puzzle seemed to fall together. All the details that had went by unnoticed before, now flashed in front of his very eyes.

Arthur playing him with his smiles, his luring and glances, his body even. Arthur had beckoned Eames into an ocean of delightful yet suffocating desire and settling. He'd made him guilt-trip into acceptation. The American had domesticated Eames to the point where he himself had turned out to be the weaker link, the victim almost.

Arthur was the bad guy. Not Saito.  
Never Saito.

“Is that understood, Mr. Eames?” Saito asked calmly after what seemed like ages of silence.

“Yes, Sir.” Eames replied, straightening up and placing a hand against his forehead. Saito followed the movement, nodding with a proud glint in his eyes which reminded Eames of their past together, of Saito's kind side... proud side, caring side.

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Eames.” They saluted one another in the middle of Trafalgar Square, the winter-sun beaming down on their heads, reflecting on the boots which they stomped onto the ground in their agreement.

“At your service, Lord Saito.”

* * *

  
  


Eames spent the rest of the afternoon, and a great deal of the evening, drinking Whiskeys on his own in bars which now 'legally existed' again above ground, rather than solely 'underground'.

No one messed with him, even though he was absolutely piss-drunk and slurring insults at anyone who dared come within a couple of feet of his personal space. A bloke got his head smashed on the counter when he'd given Eames the stink-eye... He was still lying on the floor under a couple of barstools somewhere.

No one messed with Eames.

Not with the visor-hat on his head, not with the gun poking from behind his belt, not with the medals on his coat. No one dared to throw him out.

By nine in the evening, Eames wanted to get up from his seat, he really did, but gravity had other plans and somehow he rose upside-down in a vertical spiral towards the floor which he swore shouldn't be where the ceiling was.

Faintly he should feel embarrassed, but Eames didn't care, because all he wanted was to forget about Arthur. Disgusting, under-aged, American Arthur who's dimples and voice and curls and scent kept haunting him even after three (four?) bottles of Whiskey.

And then there he was, looking down on him with a worried frown and a teasing smile or maybe that was a frown as well. He couldn't be sure because he saw his face at least three times in various directions.

“Fuck.” Eames breathed before Arthur pulled him to his feet.

Vaguely he knew Arthur shouldn't be able to pull him onto his feet and then... since when had Arthur grown to be the same height as him and then weren't his curls black instead of light brown?

“Blue eyez.” Eames slurred, trying to point at the boy's eyes but ending up slapping him in the face. 'Arthur-not-Arthur' flinched a bit but kept dragging him along, shushing him quietly.

Eames' feet dragged rather than took steps and then the cold night-air hit him like a jump into the abyss. His breath hitched and his heart seemed to start pacing again as if it hadn't been beating for the past hours.

“Arthur, you're-a fakkin' twat 's wha- you are.” The blue-eyed Arthur snorted but kept helping him farther outside until they paced through dark alleyways where Eames delightfully found balance against cobbled walls.

“Sir, you are awfully drunk, I must say.” The guy said when gently pressing Eames against a wall. Eames laughed, grabbing 'Arthur' by the lapels of his coat and pulling him against his chest.

“Do-don't gimme tha- bloody English acc'nt like Iunno 'bout your stinkin' Yank blood.” Even in the drunken state he was in, he noticed how much his r's were rolling and remembered a vague warning signal that when the r's rolled he needed to stop drinking... He once told himself that but what the fuck... wasn't drinking anymore now, was'he?

“With all due respect Sir, there isn't a drop of American blood to be found in my veins, quite luckily so.” Eames frowned, the cold air sobering him up only a wee bit and he finally realized this wasn't Arthur but a guy who looked like him... well no... now that he looked closer he didn't look like Arthur at all except for the curls and pale skin.

Besides, Arthur's voice was much nicer, not to mention his scent.

The young man stirred as Eames took a sniff of his hair before planting a hand on the nape of his neck.

“You're going to kiss me right now.” Eames growled.

“I-I'm sorry, what?”

“You're going to kiss me right now, before I blow your brains out.” The young man blinked a couple of times before gingerly leaning forward. Eames pulled him harshly, their lips and teeth clashing together.

Fuckin' Arthur with his cock-teasing and his prude nature and his goddamn betrayal. They hadn't even kissed yet, ever. Like Eames hadn't bloody saved his life and hadn't given him food and a roof and had treated him like a human being rather than a dog.

And all Arthur could do was stab him in the back, without so much as having kissed him in the past.

Godforsaken Arthur with his wicked talents of loosening emotion within Eames.

Perhaps the kissing sobered him up even more, because after a couple of minutes of gasping for air, licking into each other's mouths and grinding clothed erections against thighs, Eames was pushing himself off the wall and shoving the young man against it instead.

They both fumbled with the belt of the guy's trousers, but Eames managed to tear it down over his narrow hips anyways. He rubbed the pale arse in front of him, panting like a dog, his skin felt searingly hot, his lungs tight.

“I'm going to fuck your brains out, Arthur.” Eames growled, shoving the guy's face into the wall when he dared to look over his shoulder and nearly ruin the fantasy in Eames' mind.

“Yea-yeah, sure, sure, whatever.” The guy whispered, his voice too nasal and sharp.  
Eames grabbed a fist-full of his hair and hissed for him to shut up.

It took ten horrendously long seconds before Eames managed to undo his trousers and take out his half-hard erection.

Bloody fuckin' alcohol.

“I'm going to punish you, Arthur.”

And then he shoved inside the heat of improv-Arthur's hole, clumsily, cruelly and the guy cried out.

He fucked him hard and selfishly, his orgasm delayed to the point where he nearly gave up trying. It took a lot of focus and strain and lying to himself that he was punishing Arthur in this back-alley. He was fucking Arthur, dry, hurting him because he had stabbed him in the back.

Because Arthur was a betrayer.  
Because Arthur was disgustingly beautiful and obnoxiously intriguing and addictive. Arthur was Eames' fix, the cocaine that blurred his sense of rationality but fuck, he felt so fucking good.  
And all Eames could do at this exact moment was fuck everything away.

He came with a disgusting cry and shoved the guy aside to slump against the wall.

The fake Arthur took a long time to pull up his trousers and then just stood in front of Eames who'd by now sagged to the ground.

“What the fuck're you lookin' at?!” Eames shouted, trying to kick the guy's shin in front of him when he wouldn't stop staring.

“You need to sort your shit out, Sir.” The guy whispered with a frown before he turned to leave. Eames noted that the guy had stolen his wallet, but he couldn't care less.

He couldn't care less when his chest felt as if it wanted to burst, when his head was filled with only Arthur and Arthur alone.  
All he could see and smell and hear was Arthur.  
  
Fucking Arthur.

Fucking, bloody, idiotic, shit-headed, wanker, twat, cunt, faggot Arthur.

Eames cried that night, for the first time in as long as he could remember.

Eames lied in that alley for hours, curled into a ball of drunken agony, crying and cursing until his voice started to cave and his heart felt as if it shattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry, friends. But we need to get some angst and get this plot rollin'


	43. Life's Very Long When You're Lonely

****  
Hey guys, this chapter has been finished seven years ago.  
I advice stalker-behavior on [my tumblr](http://hardigan-miku.tumblr.com/ask) for quicker updates.

Also, have a look [here](http://hardigan-miku.tumblr.com/post/72230601422/arthur-and-eames-fanfic-ideas) and vote for Arthur/Eames prompts I should write ( _anon messages accepted_ )  
Thanks.

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**Chap 43**

_Life's Very Long When You're Lonely_

  
  


It had happened before where Arthur would wake up because Eames drunkenly stubbed a toe against his dresser or drop into bed that bit too heavily.

What he hadn't woken up to before though, was Eames shaking his shoulders, harshly.

“What the-”

“Get out.” His voice was low and dangerous and it made Arthur pause with his knuckles still in the corners of his eyes where he'd been rubbing them.

“Excuse me?”

“Get out of bed.” Eames stenched of alcohol and sweat and his eyes looked crazy, Arthur could tell even in the dark of the room.

“What the hell are you on?”

“Four bottles of Whiskey, now, get the fuck out of my bed.” Arthur yelped when Eames dragged him out by the collar of his T-shirt, scrunching it up in his fist.

Arthur cursed, unable to figure out what the hell was going on before he collided with the floor and watched Eames drop face-down into bed, still dressed in _everything_ , including shoes.

“Fuckin' asshole.” The young man growled under his breath before getting up and toeing underneath the bed in search of his pillow.

When he lied down on it, it smelled of dust, unused for months if not a whole year. It felt odd.  
Eerie.

Arthur had no idea what to expect when Eames would wake from his drunken slumber.

* * *

 

Turns out that Eames was still in a shit mood when waking up a whopping ten hours later.

He ignored Arthur fully, going straight for the bathroom and locking himself in it for another two hours.   
Arthur remained on his pillow, frowning as he stared at the door until he realized he seemed like a lost puppy and thus got up to do something- anything- that would take his mind off Eames.

When Eames got out of the bathroom, fully shaven, showered and dressed in his best suit, Arthur was seated on his desk, legs crossed and glaring at the door he'd come from.

Eames paused mid-step, his eyes flickering from Arthur's face down his clad chest to his naked, milky-white thighs. He then had the audacity to scoff as he looked away.

“You need to leave.”

Arthur's lungs seemed to cave and he blinked rapidly.

“What?”

“You need to leave.... Now.” His voice was strangely bitter and void of emotion. It reminded Arthur of how Eames had been in the beginning, cold and mocking and condescending.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Eames?” Arthur asked, his anger subsiding into worry and he frowned as he lowered himself from the desk. Eames followed the movement, his eyes shifting as those of a scared animal pondering whether to run or fight.

Arthur had no clue what was going on. Whether this was a terrible joke, or if Eames had succumbed under his well-hidden alcoholism, or perhaps was doing hard-drugs off the side which Arthur didn't know of.

He only knew nothing was making sense and Eames was hiding something from him.

“Eames, I-” Arthur began as he paced towards the man.

“Stay.” Eames commanded, holding out a hand, fingers up and palm facing Arthur.  
The boy immediately stopped in his tracks and stared at the man expectantly.

“You have to leave, I will show you out.” Arthur sputtered at that, wanting to step closer but hesitating when Eames' fingers folded, his pointer one still raised in the air as a warning.

“No talking.”

“You can't just fucking tell me to shut up, Eames, you're not my Master anymore. We're friends now. We've been friends for months now, you can't just go back to this Master-pet dynamic, what the hell is wrong with you?” Arthur's voice rose as a sudden fear gripped at his chest.

Eames was being dead-serious. Eames was going to kick him out.

“You've been wanting to go out ever since I got you. Well, embrace this granted freedom because I could as well just drive a bullet through your skull and paint my walls with your scrambled brain.” Eames hissed, his face ugly, distorted with misplaced rage and disgust.

Arthur shut his mouth, knowing there could not be reasoned with Eames at this point in time because it could cost him his life.  
That being said, Eames was right, Arthur had been wanting to leave for the past two years... why not now?

* * *

 

It was eerie to walk the same hallways he'd been led through two years ago. The war which had ended had left no guards nor soldiers in the Brit's lairs and thus Eames easily led him outside the same way he'd taken him in.

The silence in between them was unbearable, the only sound coming from the rustling of their clothes as they paced the echo-filled tunnels. Eames had allowed Arthur to take along a bag with the few belongings he had, which mostly were clothes and a couple of books. He'd left the books he'd gotten from Morrissey behind, because well... if he was going to live on the streets again, it better be he had as little weight carrying along as possible.

Arthur was numb, his mind completely blank as it motored his body to follow Eames who walked a couple of steps in front of him.  
The boy vaguely recalled how he'd glared at him back then, how Eames had told him jokes about Jack and had shoved him through doorways he'd been scared of.  
The hatred and fear he'd felt back then were far less worse than the confusion and loneliness he was now experiencing, mere minutes away from parting with the man who'd saved his life.

The last door opened, revealing a dark, cold, rainy London.

They both stood in the doorway, looking outside as the wind whipped around their clothes and the rain stung their faces.

Arthur looked to his left and then up at Eames. It took a second before the Brit glanced at him from the corner of his eye and with tightly-clenched jaws spoke.

“Go on, then. You're free.”

Arthur stepped outside, too proud and hurt and confused to even consider trying to talk to Eames and ask him what the fuck was going on.

The biting cold on his skinny frame did not hurt as much as hearing the door close behind him after only two steps into the dark, laughable future.

* * *

 

Being back on the streets was almost the same as before, but less dangerous (yet still sketchy).

It took a while before Arthur found his British tongue again, but he managed to get around and fooled those necessary to be fooled.

It was a week after having parted with Eames when Arthur heard about Russia's attack on Manchester and he wondered if this had something to do with what had happened between them.

He figured that Eames must've figured out Arthur's first intentions (fooling the man into intoxicating infatuation in order to fuck over the military) but that was before Arthur had accepted his own truths, had accepted that he didn't mind Eames any longer... not when the man had been so 'human'.

Perhaps all this was why Eames had kicked him out. Because he'd misread Arthur and now needed to focus on the re-set war at hand.

Arthur decided it didn't bother him any longer and it took him another week before he succumbed at night, lying in a bed and thumbing the die he'd gotten from Eames two Christmases ago. He didn't cry, Arthur never cried, but he recognized the suffocating punch in his gut, the tightness of his chest and the choked off ball in his throat.

He was alone.

Though he lived with a family of young guys of various nationalities, he was alone. He trusted no one and didn't care for anyone's presence. He caught himself on comparing everyone and everything to Eames and it only made him that more angry.

He saw Eames in the third week of living on the streets. He was walking down an alley in broad daylight, Saito to his right and Dom Cobb to his left. He felt sadistic pleasure in noting Eames looked tired and had seemed to have lost some weight.

“Serves you right, bastard.” He growled under his breath as he peeked from behind a corner of a house. He stared at the men's backs until they turned a street and disappeared and the anger settled for another gaping wound of loneliness.

* * *

 

In week four Arthur's mind allowed itself to remember everything he'd been through with Eames and before Eames.  
He came to the conclusion that not only life was a pain in the ass, but as well that no one, absolutely no one, could be trusted or relied on.

He also noted that his relationship with Eames had been as blinding to himself as it had been to Eames. Where Arthur's intention had to be to get back to Eames, to hurt him, he'd ended up lying to himself and enjoying the slow-paced life alongside the man.

It was extraordinary to realize how brutally one could lie to one's self.

There had been an intended attack on London by the Russians but England had fooled them into believing they had no clue, and apparently the war with Russia was now head-on. Japan once more joined sides with Britain and Arthur watched from his (broken) window how military vehicles decorated cobble-stoned streets.

It was once more advised to stay indoors, but thankfully England spent less time screwing their own citizens rather than the enemy such as they'd done in the battle with the States.

Only days later people had to flee London for reasons still unknown to citizens but the French boy Arthur had been living with whispered Russia was planning to bomb London down.

Arthur fled with the rest of the young men (seven to be precise, from ages twelve to twenty-five) to Oxford, before they had to move to Banburry where they spent about a week.  
The next stop was Birmingham, but the city promised to be too large and too big of a target to not get bombed eventually.

It was three weeks later before Arthur settled down in Shropshire. The rest of his 'clique' be damned because he was sick of running and traveling and sleeping outside, bundled up with seven boys, half of which spent hours coughing their lungs out and keeping Arthur awake with nightmare-caused shrieks.

Shropshire was mainly deserted, left behind by its owners many months ago, and Arthur found a little deserted home. There were cans of food inside and a bed and some furniture left. He spent days, weeks reading in the tiny bedroom. It was cold but with the various blankets found in a closet, he was able to keep himself warm.

He was fine on his own. As long as he had food (which he carefully divided over the days) there wasn't much else left he needed to survive. The toilet didn't work, so he optioned to go outside, as far from the house as possible, which luckily enough was surrounded by trees.  
The taps didn't work either, thus Arthur placed various bowls, glasses and a bucket outside whenever it rained or snowed.

The lack of human contact didn't bother him as much as the absence of Eames did. The man still haunted his dreams, taking the place of his normally parents-filled nightmares. Arthur sometimes forgot the sound of his voice and it frightened him. He'd by now pretty much lost all memory of Eames' scent, it bothered him deeply.

The fact he'd accepted that he missed Eames and everything about him, was eye-opening and more so gut-wrenching for the boy.

Arthur decided to explore when he'd read Oscar Wilde's 'Lord Arthur Savile's Crime' for the thirteenth time. He ignored the knowledge of it being one of Eames' favourite works.

Arthur and Eames met again under the Iron Bridge.

* * *

 

To attentive stalkers; you bloody know what happens under the Iron Bridge.  
Wanna find the _ **spoiler**_? Search [here](http://hardigan-miku.tumblr.com/tagged/stillill).


	44. Reach For My Hand and the Race is Won

  
Special thanks to[ igotlostinslashland](http://www.igotlostinslashland.tumblr.com) for making some lovely [Still Ill fan-art for the previous chapter](http://igotlostinslashland.tumblr.com/post/75712250853/he-saw-eames-in-the-third-week-of-living-on-the)!  
First time someone's ever made me fan-art and I couldn't be more happy! 

Thank you guys for keeping up with this long-ass fic! Truly appreciate it.  
This fic would never have gotten this far without your lovely reviews and slightly unnerving fangirl-behaviour.

 

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**Chapter 44  
** ~~_(I'm fucking up with the chapters. I have no clue which chapter I'm at anymore)_ ~~

_Reach for my hand and the race is won._

  


_Arthur didn't notice Eames until the lack of raindrops falling down on his curled up frame came to his senses._

Eames had been looking for him for months and this night he had finally found the kid sitting in the mud at the foot of the Iron Bridge. His knees were pulled up in order to bury his face in them, long arms wrapped around the thin limbs to keep them in place.

Why Arthur hadn't scooted over a couple of feet and sit underneath the bridge for shelter rather than risk pneumonia in the cold and downpour, was a riddle to Eames. But he looked lost... and perhaps this was reason enough.

Seeing the boy again after having been parted from him for so long and in circumstances that did not allow Eames to figure out whether he'd ever see him again, was truly one of the best feelings he'd ever experienced. Eames' chest warmed and his whole being seemed to be able to breathe and function again. As if Arthur was his raison d'être. As if only he would enable Eames' heart to beat once more.

He stepped closer to the boy, the sound of his footsteps never loud enough to overpower the noise of the heavy rain and harsh wind. Eames came to a stop in front of Arthur and he looked so achingly tiny, vulnerable. Up close he could tell the boy was shivering, most likely freezing.

Eames reached out his umbrella, hovering it over the boy and it took a couple of seconds before Arthur stirred and peeked up from his knees.

He was more beautiful than Eames remembered him to be.  
It took his breath away in the most literal sense of the saying. Eames clenched his jaws but his eyes -he knew- remained soft and apologetic.

Arthur twitched a bit, stroking a hand through his hair to remove the soaked fringe from his forehead. His eyes were wide and bright and his lips (even though tinted a bit blue) looked tempting enough to touch. His skin was as pale as ever, but had a more sickly grey to it (the moon-light did a horrible job not accentuating this) and then Eames could tell, through the soaked fabric of his black clothes, that he'd lost quite some weight.

“Eames.” Arthur said, voice barely overpowering the thuds of raindrops on the ground and the umbrella above them. The scent of petrichor buried itself deeply into Eames' nostrils and he irrationally feared he'd never be able to smell Arthur again through the stench of wet dirt.

Eames reached out his hand then, waiting patiently for Arthur's decision.  
The boy would know what his out-reached hand meant, that it was an offering of apology, an offering of starting anew.

Arthur's gaze flickered to his hand and then back up to Eames' eyes. An unspoken conversation of forgiveness and repent floated in between them.

Eames felt like all the crushed down weight of the world on his shoulders got lifted when after a long minute, Arthur finally uncurled and reached up, placing his ice-cold hand into Eames', who then proceeded to pull him to his feet.  
Arthur immediately fell into his arms, fisting the fabric of the coat's back, puling him close and burying his nose into the man's chest, and then he sighed... deeply.

It was the most _telling_ embrace to have ever been shared by either one of them.

“Come, Darling.” Eames whispered into the boy's soaked hair, relieved to find some of his scent there, and he gently led him towards the bridge for shelter.

Once under the architectural arch, Eames dropped his umbrella on the ground, pressed Arthur up against bricks or metal, fuck if he cared what it was, and wrapped both arms around his bony frame.

In the cocoon of rain and the darkness of the night, Eames allowed himself to revel into the boy's warmth, the boy's scent, the boy's body, the sound of his hitching breaths and sniffling nose and clattering teeth.

He soaked Arthur in. He drowned himself into all that he cared about, he slipped below the water-line and the metaphorical death was the best he'd ever had. Arthur was his drugs, his fix, his downfall, his love.

“Arthur.”

The boy only clung more tightly against him.

“Oh, Darling...” He groaned as if in pain and he truly felt like crying right there. His chest was heavy and his body just wanted to slump into the boy. Eames wanted to cave, because he finally could.

Instead Eames just brought up his arms to bury his hands into the boy's hair and gently pull him away from nuzzling his chest.

Arthur took a shuddering breath as Eames cradled his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones as he stared into brown eyes.

“Arthur, I-” He began, his voice crackling.

Arthur never cried, he'd told Eames this, and granted the Brit had never seen the boy cry. But here, in the dark, he noticed how the boy dug his teeth into his lower-lip, breathing in deeply through his nose and blinking rapidly.

Arthur was fighting tears and Eames' heart felt an urge to stab itself to death for having hurt this precious young man.

“I'm so sorry, Love...” Eames whispered, the words sounded hollow on their own but his voice was thick with regret. He could've said anything and the meaning would still have shined through. Arthur nodded quickly, biting his lip more harshly as he kept looking at Eames' face, seeming to take in every little crook and dent, memorizing it.

And Eames returned this favour, his thumbs stroking all the skin he could reach of the boy's face until one of them rubbed over Arthur's lips and he heard him gasp, saw his eyes flutter momentarily, felt his body arch that tiny bit.

… And that was it.

Eames closed the distance and then planted his warm lips against Arthur's cold ones. Both their pairs of lungs stuttered to a halt.  
Neither of them moved for long seconds, maybe minutes. They'd started breathing through their noses when remembering how to in- and exhale oxygen again and eventually their bodies started to relax into one another.

It wasn't until Arthur grabbed the lapels of Eames' coat -tugging him closer- that the latter deepened the kiss.

Arthur sighed into his mouth when Eames parted his lips with his own and when their mouths slotted together that wee bit more intimately, their bodies seemed to melt.

Arthur tasted a thousand times better than Eames could've ever imagined him to. He was warm, his tongue wet and soft, and the tiny breaths and gasps that stuttered in the back of his throat could not only be heard by, but as well _felt_ by Eames.

With his thumbs brushing cheekbones and the corners of Arthur's mouth, Eames only grew more feverish. Heads tilting and with his tongue licking into the boy, he could feel the black pit in his stomach finally blossom back to its health and fulfillment.

Arthur was back. Arthur was his. Arthur was kissing him.

It wasn't until the American returned the ministration of lapping (shyly) at Eames' already-busy tongue, that the man's brain stuttered to a halt and all his senses were one-hundred percent focused on the boy.

Eames didn't hear the rain, didn't feel the cold, didn't smell the dirt. The only thing he processed was how their mouths were a hot point of connection and how their bodies were lean, warm lines pressed together beyond disconnection.

All that existed at that moment was Arthur and all he needed to survive was _his_ Arthur.

Somewhere between nipping at an upper-lip and clacking their teeth, Eames pressed forward, more urgent, and slid his thigh between the young man's legs. Arthur swallowed down a whimper, a pathetic little sound which could be mistaken for a kitten's very first meow.

Eames needed everything, he needed to own Arthur, had to take in every little particle of the gorgeous boy in order to rebuild from the months without him, in order to repent for the years of lies and manipulations and mistakes.

And Arthur, bless him, accepted greedily, spreading his legs and groaning into Eames' mouth as their bodies grind together. He gave himself over, seized to fight, doors wide-open to a man who could save him but as well ruin him.

Eames was infatuated with this new Arthur. Obsessed with the knowledge that the American now was his.

Arthur was beautiful, more comfortable in his lanky limbs now that he was eighteen. His height nearly similar to Eames' but still a tad shorter, his weight still childishly low.  
But, god, was he a gorgeous specimen. It made Eames ache to realize Arthur was only human, that he was made of blood, flesh and bones just like any other human being but Christ... his genetics had been far more than kind with every inch of his being.

The kiss grew more needy, merely a slotting of lips and stroking of tongues, breaths coming out hitched and heavy, loud. Arthur's hands had crawled from Eames' chest up to his neck, grabbing on to it while some of his fingers found lovely distraction in curling in the too short hairs on the nape of his neck.

Arthur muttered something incoherently when Eames shoved him more harshly against the wall, rubbing his thigh in between his' with so much force it could only be painful.

But still he accepted.

Arthur would accept anything Eames gave him and this thought alone made his brain feel like it desired to tumble into a lethal stroke.

Eames had seen it back then, letting him go, he'd seen it in the boy's eyes. Arthur had been hurt, Arthur had been uncertain, had been childishly afraid and then with teenage pride had refused to not follow through.

Arthur needed him in his life and it had only taken a couple of weeks before Eames realized everything that was wrong, all the words of Saito holding some truth but nonetheless would never stand victorious about all that Eames felt for Arthur.  
Arthur did weaken Eames.  
Arthur did cause the downfall of the UK Military Colonel.  
But he'd never meant to. Even if he had in the beginning... when kicking him out that night, he'd seen it in the boy's eyes... had seen the honesty, the truthfulness, the lack of bad intentions.

And well,  
Arthur did care about Eames... to some degree.  
And Eames did care about Arthur... a whole lot.

Afterwards, looking for the boy, after having ditched his army, his boss, his bloody own country, had been a month-long agonizing track-down.

But here he was. In his arms, moaning quietly with a frown on his face as if he was on the border of crying or coming undone.  
And Eames couldn't find within himself to regret the decisions he'd made. He absolutely adored Arthur. Arthur made him happy... so why should he deny himself his happiness like he'd done his whole life?

He no longer needed to ache and hurt, no longer needed to exist for others, for a boss, a military, a country. It was time Eames would win the race of life. Starting from this point on, delayed but still chancing victory, he'd travel to the finish-line. Happiness and fulfillment awaiting him.

There were no words being said. Arthur understood everything, as did Eames.  
They both understood, _knew_ , that this was their new beginning and that the past was merely a bad dream left behind.  
As if the stars had aligned and decided the silly games were over and done with and this was their time, their race.

This was Arthur and Eames' time.

“I need you now, Arthur, please.” Eames whispered against the boy's lips before traveling a hand quickly down over the boy's chest (trying not to linger because he arched beautifully into the touch) down to his crotch which was still rutting against Eames' thigh.

“Yes.” Arthur hissed, nodding quickly as he pulled back from the kiss but continued rubbing himself into the palm of the Brit's hand, shoulder-blades leaning heavily against the wall behind him in order to tilt his hips just the right way.

“I need everything of you. Will you let me have everything?” Eames murmured against the boy's throat to which he'd now focused his lips' attention at, his left hand squeezing the nape of his neck, knowing it was the boy's soft-spot. Arthur buried his fingers in the man's side-comb, messing up any model left after the wind had done its job, murmuring obscenities underneath his breath.

“Yes.”

“Anything I want?” Eames whispered before nipping the skin of the boy's throat. His own hips had started grinding against whatever he could reach which at the moment was the boy's sharp hipbone and the side of his own arm which was trapped between them in order to fondle Arthur as well.

“Anything you want.” Arthur spoke softly, his words breathy and a bit rough before his lips somehow found way to the tip of Eames' ear. It was silly how such a tiny touch made Eames feel as if his trousers were about to bloody explode right off of him.

“You know I'll make it good for you, yea? I'm going to treat you so good, Darling. I'll take you apart and put all your pretty pieces back in place, after cherishing them all, one by one. I'll be so good, Arthur. You'll give me everything and I'll take it all for you.” Arthur just moaned, nodding absently before his head thumped against the wall behind him and the rutting into Eames' palm grew more needy, urgent.

“Tell me you want that.” Eames growled before sinking his teeth into the boy's throat, Arthur stopped breathing for at least a couple of seconds. Eames knew that Arthur, as well, now remembered the first time they'd done anything this intimate. They both remembered how Eames had bitten Arthur to the point where the boy had come as hard as a teenager could come.

Arthur did enjoy pain.

“Tell me you want everything I give to you and take of you. You trust me, right?”

“God, Eames.” Arthur groaned with a low voice, one hand released its death-grip on Eames' hair and instead slapped itself over the man's hand, grinding it harder against his crotch.

“Tell me you want me, Arthur. Tell me you want me. That's it Darling. I'll let you come. Tell me first.” He lapped at the boy's throat, up to his ear where he whispered naughty things he wanted to do to him and then licked the whole shell of it lewdly and wetly.

Arthur's whole body shivered, nearly tipping over the edge by that alone.

“Yeah, yeah, I want it all, Eames. I want you, please, please.” The boy begged, his lips in search of Eames and as the man returned the kiss, growling, he finally unbuttoned the boy's jeans and shoved a hand inside his knicker-less, wet trousers.

Arthur came instantly. His shrill cry bounced off the Iron Bridge's wall, more beautifully than how his body arched off it.  
Hot strings of his orgasm spilled over the man's hand and fingers and Eames could only groan the American's name and pant into his mouth, his own hips vaguely still rutting against the boy.

They stood there for a couple of minutes; Eames lazily rubbing himself against Arthur who himself was slowly catching back his breath and calming down his heartbeat.

The Brit was happy. With his eyes closed and his head resting on Arthur's bony shoulder, he realized this was what he'd been looking for pretty much all his life. He was convinced this is what he'd been put on this earth for to do. He'd been created solely to save Arthur, to help him, give him hope, grant him a second chance at life.

And Eames had never felt this selflessly _full_ ever before.

The kid started mouthing at his throat and eventually his breathing once more became labored, heavy wet pants fanning out over Eames' skin.

“It's not enough...” He whispered, voice trembling as much as his body. Arthur's hand sneaked down to Eames' still-present erection and he rubbed it through the trousers.

“Arthur... you're freezing. Let's get you shelter first.” Eames mumbled in his shoulder but ended up groaning when Arthur just squeezed harder and lapped a wet line from neck to ear.

“I don't care. I've wanted you for so long, Eames... so fucking long and I was too stupid to see and I'm sorry for-”

Eames interrupted him with grabbing his face and slamming his lips on his'.

The kiss was far more carnal than it had been before, wild and loud. Arthur moaned his name whenever there was room to out words, but Eames licked them right back in each time. The man used his whole weight to press the boy up against the wall behind him, surely close to crushing his body but going by the breathless ' _more_ ', that was just fine.

“If you think-” Eames began, interrupted by his own hiss because the boy chose to sink his teeth into his bottom-lip painfully hard.

“If you think I'm going to fuck you out here, you are dead-wrong, Pet.” Eames growled, grabbing both Arthur's hands with lightning speed before pinning them against the wall, above his head. The boy only whined, his face a mixture of lewd pleasure and mock arrogance.

“God, Eames... your voice...” Arthur out-right complained, tipping back his head and bumping the back of his skull against the wall behind him several times as if wanting to snap out of his arousal.

“I know, Sweetheart. Come, let's get you warm and cleaned up.”

Eames wouldn't lie.  
It took all of his willpower to deny the boy's pleasure at this moment but he had to if he didn't want the kid dead by the end of the week because of the cold which by now surely had settled into his every nerve.

Seeing Arthur like this, absolutely undone, free of hatred, released from fear, coming apart at the edges... well... Eames wasn't sure he'd ever see something as- or more beautiful than this.

The boy was giving himself fully to him. For the first time since meeting him and maybe for the first time in Arthur's young life, the boy was peeling off all the masks and kicking down all the walls and revealing the purest core to this man who should be his enemy.

And what was more beautiful than that?

What was more beautiful than seeing someone's heart, beating, pulsing only for you?

Arthur had given Eames his heart, no matter how vulnerable and uncertain their future...  
And Eames took it, greedily but selflessly, promising himself and the boy he'd take care of it forever, no matter what.

No one would ever touch the boy's heart but Eames, ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know what youre thinking  
> no  
> this fic is far from over
> 
> *thunder in background and roaring laughter*


	45. I Know It's Over and It Never Really Began

this was one of the hardest chapters to write so far.  
i've reread and rewritten it at least half a dozen times.  
special thanks to [merry-chases](http://merry-chases.tumblr.com) for helping me out with this story and convincing me my chapters aren't utter crap such as i always seem to think

enjoy ~~_(because this costed me a kidney and at least two family members and a great deal of my sanity)_~~

* * *

 

 

_I Know It's Over and It Never Really Began_

  
  


“Bit shabby, innit?” Eames murmured as Arthur pulled him through the front door of the little house he'd been staying at for the past weeks.

Arthur didn't reply and instead locked the door behind him and then led Eames farther through the dark.

“I need a bath.” He growled, the sticky mess in his pants cold and, now that he was free of arousal, felt far more obnoxious than it had before.

Arthur's cock twitched at the memory of what had happened. How they'd kissed and kissed and kissed and then how Eames had jerked him off and how he'd ignored his own arousal for the sake of getting Arthur shelter because he'd been shivering and his lips had been blue.

He was still cold and when he paused in his steps, patting a hand on the kitchen table to find the oil-lamp in the dark, Eames wrapped his arms around him.

“I missed you.” He whispered into his shoulder, his lips traveling a path of kisses over the wet fabric of his shirt towards his bare throat. Eames nuzzled the wet strands of hair in his neck and repeated the words.

“I missed you, Arthur.” His voice was firmer this time but Arthur choked on his own, not able to return the truthful confession. He'd missed Eames too... But he shouldn't have.

Instead of allowing Eames to question his silence, he instead turned in the man's embrace and wrapped his arms around his neck, kissing him.

The distraction worked like a charm and before he realized, Eames had lifted him on the table and his hands were fondling his cold body.

“You need to get out of these wet clothes.” He said, his hands already peeling off his coat. Arthur raised his arms so the man could pull off his shirt and as Eames kneed down to undo his shoes, he busied himself with lighting the oil-lamp on the table.

The soft orange glow filled the room when Eames was undoing Arthur's fly, and the boy for a moment lost himself in the beauty of the man's features, focused on his work, skin glossy with rain and the dim light reflecting on it.

Eames must've felt the stare because he paused in his movements and looked up at him.  
Arthur kept looking in his eyes, recalling all the lovely and aching memories between them. They'd gone through so much, Arthur felt like he'd grown up five times the normal speed in the past years, but then as well he'd found a re-granted childhood of sorts, having been protected and cared for.

Eames smiled, kindly, his eyes softening before he looked back down and tugged off Arthur's pants.

Arthur sat naked on the table and Eames took off his own coat, the back of it carried various raindrops, they glistened. The man tossed the thick coat on a nearby chair and then peeled off the big sweater he was wearing.

With careful movements, Eames pulled the sweater over Arthur's head and the boy found no difficulty in pulling his legs up on the table, his whole body tucked into the large, warm clothing.

“Good boy.” Eames smiled, before tugging at one of Arthur's toes which wiggled at the edge of the table. Arthur drew back his feet, toeing down the rim of the sweater underneath them and creating a head-less tent of body-heat and Eames' scent.

“Do you have tap-water?” The Brit asked, pacing around the kitchen in search of something, opening and closing cabinets.

“No, but there's buckets of rainwater to your right, in the corner.”

Eames fetched two buckets, placing them on the counter before he started fumbling with the stove.

It was in that moment, watching Eames curse at the innocent kitchen machinery, and dropping a whole box of matches on the floor, tiny sticks sprawled over dirty tiles, that Arthur pitied him.  
He could kill him right now, Eames' back being turned to him for many minutes. Arthur could leap and stab him in the neck with one of the knifes he had taped underneath the table.  
He could take his vengeance, there should still be _reason_ to take vengeance... This wasn't a happy end kind of story.

But Arthur didn't.  
He watched Eames; skinnier, his features softened, looking tired and mild-hearted, a kindness to his eyes whenever he glanced at Arthur.

Eames was weak.  
He'd weakened him to the point where he'd abandoned his country just for him.  
What an awful thing to do.

Arthur wasn't flattered. Not one bit.  
As he said... he pitied the man.

He pitied the man who'd lost his knack for survival and would never get it back.

* * *

  
  


Eames cleaned him up, bathing him on the kitchen counter and making sure he stayed warm.  
Afterwards they made their way upstairs and embarrassingly enough, Eames tucked him in.

Arthur noted that the man leaned in to kiss him on the forehead, but there were painful memories attached to the motherly happening and thus the boy arched his throat and caught Eames' lips with his'.

The man moaned and nearly melted into him. And Arthur hurt. He hurt for this man so easily fooled by him.

Arthur couldn't deal with the kindness. He could with the roughness. He had no trouble caving underneath his infatuation for this handsome father-figure. He knew he was attracted to Eames and after all they've been through he accepted that he wanted this Brit. He wanted Eames to touch him, sexually, lustfully, pervertedly and even aggressively.

But not with the kindness that now traveled through his bloodstream.  
Because lust and love were completely different and Arthur refused to love this man more than he currently allowed himself to.  
This was the reasoning behind why he cringed at the kindness in this man. This is why he couldn't return the confession of having missed him and this is why he'd rather make out now than he would have Eames kiss him on the forehead and stroke knuckles over his cheek.

The bulk of the Brit's body was heavy when he lied down on top of Arthur, digging his elbows in the mattress in order to hold the boy's face in his hands.

The kiss was suffocating in the most metaphorical way. It was too sweet, too soft and slow and deep. Too _telling_.

“Eames...” Arthur groaned, grabbing fistfuls of his dark blond hair and nearly shoving his tongue inside his mouth. Eames didn't notice the reason behind Arthur's passion and instead went with it greedily.

Somewhere between Arthur begging and Eames cursing, the blanket got tugged out from between them, aggressively so. The boy was sure he didn't imagine the sound of fabric ripping.

And then it was all tangled limbs, trembling hands and battling with clothes.

Arthur's confusion about what he felt for Eames, about how much he did care about this man, about whether he pitied him or just experienced sympathy, and his fear of what kind of future they'd have together melted like snow underneath the sun when their naked bodies finally slotted together.

Eames kissed him once more, impatient and needy, whilst pulling the blanket back over them.  
Arthur kicked it away, wanting to see him, wanting to see the man touching him so greedily and never confuse Eames' sides ever again. He needed to burn the metaphorical image in his brain, he needed to remind himself every day that the Eames he saw this night; hungry and impatient and desperate to molest him, was the only Eames acceptable in his life and being.

He dug his fingernails in the Brit's muscled back, and Eames' hips halted their feverish rutting. The man glanced to his left where Arthur had kicked the blanket to.

“Arthur, if you dare get pneumonia I swear to God I will spank the cold right out of you.”

Arthur bit his lower-lip at the comment, feeling his heartbeat almost vibrate in his chest. This was who he needed. This was the Eames he'd known from the beginning, the acceptable one.  
Arthur needed what he'd always known. The life he'd lived before his parents' deaths was not an option to relive in the world now. The only life he could live now was the one the streets had taught him and afterwards Eames had granted him.

And this was an existence that lacked unconditional love and unwavering honesty.

The boy opened his eyes, looking at Eames above him and he smiled cheekily, which in its turn caused the man to groan and close his eyes. He was so easy to play... so fucking easy.

“God, you're a dirty little thing.” Eames whispered, voice breathless and crumbling apart, before he dug his face in the boy's shoulder, continuing to rut his naked erection against Arthur's.

“Yeah.” Arthur breathed, arching his body into the man above him. This was it. This was what he needed; losing himself in this man, in the initial enemy who was not worthy his heart but most certainly deserved to corrupt his body.

And it felt great, awesome. Losing yourself in another person, losing yourself in your own arousal, arousal fed to you by another.

Arthur played him like an instrument as if he hadn't done anything else the past years. Arthur liked to believe he indeed hadn't, liked to believe he'd been manipulating Eames from start to finish.

It was a pathetic yet necessary lie.

“I'm _your_ dirty little thing.” He murmured into his ear. At those words, Eames kind of lost it a bit and they ended up shooting their loads on each other's stomachs before Eames cradled him from behind and they both fell into a nightmare-less sleep.

* * *

  
  


The next morning Arthur woke on his own. He felt a jolt of anxiety shoot through his system at the thought of Eames being gone, once more. But he soon after heard whistling downstairs and the clattering of utensils.

The boy rolled onto his back, staring at the moldy and cracked ceiling, asking himself what the fuck it was he felt for Eames. He wondered how hard he was lying to himself because he knew that to some degree there was a denied dishonesty somewhere in the reasoning of why he needed Eames as much as he craved to despise him.

Despising him became more difficult as time went by.  
Despising him hadn't been done for months now...

He still couldn't decide if he'd rather accept him in his life or preferred to round-house kick him in the face and shove a knife down his throat.  
Well... the latter was exaggerated.

Arthur dug a hand underneath his pillow and retreated the red die Eames had given him many Christmases ago. Twirling it between his fingers, rubbing eyes that had by now worn down because of years of ministrations, Arthur questioned why there was doubt left in his mind.

There were multiple reasons but all of those sounded like stubborn excuses of an adolescent brat... Which granted, Arthur still was.  
And then there was a voice in the back of his mind that whispered he enjoyed hurting himself because that's what he'd been experiencing in the second part of his young life.  
And the voice teased, cruelly, that the past defines your present and the future is hopelessly lost.

Truth was he could never trust Eames completely, nor anyone else for that matter. But the greater truth was that well, if one wanted to move on in life, one would need a fellow human being in life if desired to grow emotionally.

And Arthur did want to grow.  
Had wanted to grow from the day his father hadn't returned home from war and he had wanted to taste and soak in the knowledge of human cruelty from the moment his mother had been inevitably raped and murdered.

Putting those heinous happenings in the back of his mind was rather difficult. Shoving away thoughts about his parents, about his roots and childhood, took a great deal of selfless selfishness.

And it made sense.

To Arthur it did.

How could he ever get out of what he'd been through without being scarred and confused and scared?  
He couldn't. Not with the past of _what-he-loved-would-be-taken-away_ weighing down on his biologically young frame which emotionally had aged a disgusting amount.

Life had shaped him, molded him into a hunched-shouldered, grim-mouthed shadow. Putting these thoughts in order explained why Arthur accepted Eames' darker side rather than his good one.

Eames knocked on the door, interrupting the kid's grinding mind and he quickly hid the die in his fist, shoving it underneath the blanket.

“You alright, Love?” The Brit asked, a worried frown on his softened features. Arthur nodded, sitting up and watching Eames strut inside his bedroom, carrying a plate of canned foods.

He handed over the improvised breakfast and the boy murmured a 'thanks' before stuffing the die between his thigh and the mattress and then digging into the sweet corn. 't Was a day and night difference from the luxurious foods he'd devoured when living alongside Eames, in his chambers.

But for some reason, he now felt more safe out in the open rather than he had when locked up and guarded.

Eames lowered himself on the edge of the bed, his left-side facing the kid.

It took him many minutes before he finally worded what was obviously weighing him down.

“We can't go back, you know.” He began, glancing at Arthur from the corner of his eye.

“I know.” Arthur shared before wrapping his lips around another spoon-full of canned vegetables.

“If we run now, there's no way back and I can not tell you what will lie behind the horizon to which we'll be fleeing, … if we make it there in the first place.” Another silence filled in between them.

Arthur, in that moment, decided that he was out of options.  
He was out of choices about which human beings he wanted in his life, about which roads he desired to roam and about whom to give himself to.

Eames was there. The only one willing, the only one present to reach out a hand to him and pull him through... through... well, _everything_.

The boy sat upright, placing the half-empty plate on the night-table besides the bed and when he looked up he met the Brit's eyes and could read the fear in them, the uncertainty and vulnerability.  
Eames no longer was a threat.  
Eames no longer was England's Colonel.  
Eames no longer was Saito's partner in crime.  
He no longer was the man he'd once been.

Eames was Eames.

The man sighed quietly as Arthur rested his forehead against his shoulder. His fingers automatically found their home in his curls, stroking and caressing and Arthur allowed himself to be fully consumed by Eames' familiar scent.

The future wasn't bright, would never be. But Arthur knew that Eames would be a guiding light along the present path towards an inevitable cruel ending.

And he didn't have a choice... It was over.

“... I know.”


	46. Learn to Love Me and Assemble the Ways

_May, 2053 (approximately three weeks later)_

  


Arthur and Eames started traveling about a week after their reunion.

They roamed through the UK towards a destination still unknown for Arthur. Paris, France was where Eames was leading his boy. Paris was safe at this time in the war, surely it wouldn't be forever, but they were weak and tired and they needed to come back to themselves for a couple of weeks.

They needed to settle, even if only for a little while.

It took Eames a lot of effort, threats and a heap of money to be able to find someone willing to smuggle them abroad. But they succeeded and a grey-bearded man resembling Santa Clause allowed them a spot on his fishing-boat.

They arrived in Luxembourg and stayed for a couple of days with the Santa-man and his wife before Eames and Arthur continued on their way south towards France.

The closer they got to the border, the less soldiers were spotted and even Arthur could tell they were in a good place on this earth right now.

“Where are we?” Arthur questioned when Eames pulled him by the wrist through a maze of trees and bushes. It was best to travel through thick forests rather than the comfortable path alongside the tree-line. Never mind the hazardous presence of low branches and out-sticking roots.

“We're in France.” Eames replied in a matter-of-fact tone and he heard Arthur huff behind him.

“What?” He asked, looking over his shoulder at the lovely -yet too skinny- looking American. Arthur was downright sulking, the fatigue making him more childish than should be acceptable for his eighteen years of age. Eames couldn't blame him, though it still annoyed him to have to deal with a bratty teenager at times where he just wanted to get it over with.

“We've been traveling for over a month. When are we going to settle down?”

That was a fair question and Eames only grimaced when the back of his head was turned to his lover.

“Soon.”

“How soon?”

“Just soon, Arthur.”

“When is soon?”

“... Arthur.” Eames warned.

“When?”

“Soon.”

“When's that gonna be?” Arthur asked loudly and Eames knew he was being a brat because he was hungry and tired and angry and most likely also afraid, though he'd never admit to that. But that didn't mean Eames was able to deal with it such as he would have if he'd be rested and well-fed himself.

His anger, these days, was very easy to trigger.  
Eames halted in his step abruptly, letting go of the boy's warm wrist and turned around to face him. Arthur froze at the spot, knowing immediately that he'd pissed Eames off just by seeing his face and body-language.  
Granted, Eames was glaring and pointing a finger towards the boy's nose, which made Arthur go cross-eyed for a split second before he decided look back up at the Brit.

“Look. I don't know, alright? We've known this from the beginning. We've agreed upon a life of uncertainty amongst lack of comfort rather than return to London and get shot in the bloody head. So please shut that pretty, arrogant mouth of yours because you're bloody pissing me off, Arthur.” Eames bit back and felt exhaustion take a hold of him almost immediately. He'd lost a great deal of muscle and weight these last months and alongside physical set-backs, there was a greater mental part that was just getting tired of having to fight and think and plan.  
Eames was very scared of what lied ahead in their future.  
Eames was just very, very scared of what would happen in Arthur's future.

He feared everything would end badly. Though he could accept his own death, after all he deserved it after the people he'd degraded and the country he'd betrayed... he could not accept this boy to undergo a similar fate simply because he _existed_ and simply because he'd been trying to survive and had been in the wrong spot at the wrong time.

Arthur deserved more than that.  
So much more.

The American looked as if he was ready to cry, still frozen at the spot and staring wide-eyed at Eames, biting his own lower-lip harshly. And Eames immediately regretted having been so crude to him.  
He was _so_ young, of course he wanted answers, of course he was afraid. Arthur wasn't at fault here.

“Come.” Eames whispered after having lowered his hand and having softened his eyes. He tried to pull him into a hug but Arthur just took a step back and murmured a quiet 'no' before swatting at Eames' hand.  
The Brit smiled at the poor excuse of a fight Arthur was putting up and without further ado he grabbed the slightly-shorter man's shoulder and pulled him against his chest. He could feel the boy's body tense up when it collided with Eames' and then only a second after he relaxed fully into his embrace.

“It's going to be alright.” The man whispered in the boy's black curls. Arthur's hair smelled dirty and was greasy and Eames could not care less about this. Arthur could be covered in bullshit for all he cared and he'd still be attracted to him, physically and emotionally.

“You don't know that.” Arthur replied, though his arms by now had wrapped around Eames' thicker frame, fingers clutching the back of his coat.

“I'll make it happen.” There was honesty in his words. His mission now was to make sure Arthur would be fine now, today, tomorrow and always.  
But as much as Eames enjoyed to dream and hope, he was a rationalist when needing to be and he wasn't in denial about the fact that Saito was surely looking for him and that if anyone got word of where he was... the Jap would not hesitate to send out soldiers to slaughter him like a pig.  
Without Eames, Arthur would not survive in the current war, especially not when being tied to a man who'd betrayed one particular side of the war's occupants, and thus Eames had to make sure to get Arthur to safety as soon as possible.

“I'm so tired, Eames.” Arthur murmured into his shoulder.

“I know, Darling.” Eames hushed the skinny boy in his arms, hating how he could feel the bones on his back like he had before he'd been feeding the boy with the best of foods he could get, nevermind his own hunger. The words tugged at his heartstrings immediately.  
There was no way he'd let anyone put a hand on Arthur. Not a chance. As long as Eames was alive, Arthur would not get hurt.  
And fuck... he must _love_ the boy if the sacrifices he'd made in the past three years were anything to go by.

“I'll take care of you, Arthur. I'll protect you... I keep my promises.” Eames whispered into Arthur's hair, stroking the nape of his neck with a warm hand and feeling his heart burn at how the young man only seemed to relax and slump more and more into his arms.

* * *

  


They reached Paris a handful of days later. The city wasn't as busy as it would've been a decade ago, but it still was 'alive'. There were actual shops open, actual bars, actual care-free conversations between people taking place at corners of streets and except for the lack of the Eiffel Tower in the back-ground (it had gotten bombed down six years ago) there was not much telling there was a war raging only a twenty-one mile channel away.

The first thing Eames did with the thousands of Pounds he'd brought with him was changing them to Euros in a bank (which truly had more similarities to a drug-dealership than actual well-mannered accounting). Afterwards he went to buy some normal clothes rather than the boots and coat that showed military background.  
They'd have to become proper citizens and definitely not stick out if they'd plan to stay for a couple of months. Eames could only be grateful that France, this time, had refused to participate in the war against America. And they'd only managed to do so because they possessed some great nuclear bombs if England's makeshift spy-agency was to be believed.

Eames wasn't all sure about that, because of the lack of attention the English and Americans have been giving France. Either way, France was safe, for now.

By the time evening fell, Eames dragged Arthur through back-streets which to the man's amusement were still coloured red by the lights seeping through windows that displayed women dressed in little more than some knickers and make-up.  
It had rained earlier that evening, and the red reflected on the slick cobblestones in a way that could either resemble temptation or bloodshed.

“You've been-uh in France before?” Arthur asked. His voice sounded high, breaking and when Eames looked over his shoulder he could see how Arthur was blushing profoundly as a women beckoned him inside. When she winked at him, Arthur could only sputter something incoherent and with an amused grin at the lady, Eames tugged Arthur along.

“She blew me a kiss!” Arthur squeaked and Eames rolled his eyes at the boy who had no problem at rubbing himself off on Eames' leg like a dog in heat but god forbid a lady would blow him a kiss.

It was wonderful to see Arthur so out of his comfort-zone that he was blushing and stuttering on high-pitched words. Eames loved every little imperfection about him because it just made Arthur so much more perfect to Eames. Even the boy's flaws contributed to his beauty and to Eames' infatuation.

“Yes, I have.” Eames replied simply as they continued pacing through mazes of alleys. Arthur kept quiet, surely still very annoyed about the earlier incident with Missus Frilly-Knickers.  
About ten minutes later Eames stopped in his tracks, Arthur gracefully bumping face-first into his back.

“Stay behind me.” The Brit murmured before he dragged out his gun from the holster underneath his coat. He pushed Arthur more closely behind him and then knocked on the door to his right, staying against the wall rather than the entrance itself.

“Are we going to fucking kill prostitutes?” Arthur whispered with an affronted (hidden panic) lilt in his voice. Eames just tapped him on the hip, where he was holding him, and shushed.

It took agonizingly long before somewhere above them a window opened and as Eames arched his throat, looking up, the woman looking down cooed.

“Monsieur Eames, mon chéri!”

Eames grinned, waving at her after having pocketed his gun and not all missing how Arthur stiffened behind him.

“Bonjour! Still as beautiful as ever, you is.” Eames said and the truly-beautiful lady laughed as she waved a dismissive hand at him.

“Charmeur. I will come down and let you in!” She called back in broken English, her accent gentle and becoming.  
When she closed the window, Arthur wriggled out of Eames' grip with an annoyed huff and came to stand next to him.

“Who is that?” Arthur hissed, glaring at the Brit. Eames only smiled as he heard the jealousy in his voice, but did not meet his eye.

“That's Mal. She's Jean-Pierre's wife.”

* * *

  


As Eames had expected, Arthur grew fond of her almost immediately, regardless of his jealousy.  
It was a talent Mal had possessed ever since Eames had met her a long time ago. She was beautiful, kind, warm and absolutely charming. She could've been a sister of Eames if you wouldn't know any better.

Eames didn't yet ask about Jean-Pierre. Though it had been rumoured he'd moved back to her... Eames was certain Jean-Pierre would not have done this without telling him first and thus he suspected there having been some filthy play.

And frankly, the Brit wasn't ready quite yet to find out what had happened.

Mal showed Arthur and Eames a small bedroom they could use for the time they'd be staying at her place (she'd nearly begged Eames to please allow her hospitality and just stay, _mon amour, just stay maybe a little week, oui?_ ).  
Praise heavens, for her humble home as well possessed a bathroom and as she nearly shoved them inside the tiny space, presumingly already having found out Arthur and Eames would be comfortable being naked in each other's presence (she was quick on the uptake), she told them she'd be making them dinner in the meanwhile.

With the bathroom door closed behind them, Eames sighed, leaning his back against it.  
This was it. Finally some peace, finally some rest from their traveling and running.

When his eyes flickered up he caught Arthur's gaze. The boy stood in the middle of the tiny bathroom, watching him, a blush on his cheeks and Eames knew that face all too well.

“Go have a shower, I'll sort out the clothes I bought for us.” Eames murmured, throwing him a wink and hoping it wouldn't remind him of the prostitute earlier that evening.

Arthur nodded shyly, watching Eames as he left the bathroom to get the bag of little belongings they had left.

* * *

  


Eames returned to the bathroom about fifteen minutes later and took a moment to observe Arthur standing under the warm-water spray, very obviously enjoying it.  
His chest heaved slowly and deeply, his eyes closed as his face was turned into the spray, his arms hung loosely at his sides and occasionally Eames could hear him hum.

He undressed quietly, feeling dirty and greasy, before stepping behind Arthur into the shower. The boy stirred for a second but other than that didn't move until Eames nudged him a bit forward so he could get some of the water.  
Eames washed himself thoroughly, the whole bathroom now scenting of vanilla and floral soaps and after having shampooed his' and Arthur's hair, he finally hugged the boy from behind.

“I've missed this.” He murmured against Arthur's wet hair and then felt giddy because of how Arthur had grown to the point where he now could actually rest his nose against the crown of his head, rather than having to pull a muscle with bending over in order to kiss him.

“Showering together?” Arthur asked.

“Just holding you.” Eames replied and knew it didn't make much sense because they'd held each other countless times in the past months of traveling.  
But the warmth of the bathroom, the prospect of a proper meal, the cleanliness of their bodies.. it made him happy to the bone (figuratively and _literally_ )

They didn't do anything in the shower, though Arthur did point out Eames' boner was poking him in the ass and was shameless enough to move his body so that Eames' erection slipped through the slick cleft of Arthur's arse.  
Eames tucked away said boner for future reference as they got dressed and they brushed their teeth with toothbrushes provided to them earlier by Mal (bless her mind for thinking of everything). The eye-contact as they both stood behind the sink, watching each other through the mirror, was filthy enough to spontaneously rob one of virginity.

They got back downstairs dressed in new, clean clothes, wet hair and minty toothpaste flavour left on tongues, only to face a table covered with plates of warm, tasty-smelling foods.  
The three of them ate together. Mal and Eames talking in French and Arthur listening along. Eames knew Arthur understood French.

When he asked about Jean-Pierre, Mal's face turned grim. She told him he'd disappeared for a while rather than returning home as had been promised to her by English soldiers.  
Later on she'd gotten the news of a family member (who worked close with England's military) that Jean-Pierre had been killed and tossed in a river quite some time ago.

Eames turned pale at the news and gave Mal his condolences before they continued to eat. He was certain Saito had had a hand in the murder but tucked away his anger for when it would be appropiate.  
Other than the gutted news about Jean-Pierre, the evening continued peacefully.  
Arthur and Eames were knackered but still joined Mal for a drink in the small living room before eventually calling it a night.

Eames believed he'd never in his life felt as intensely happy as he did that night; wrapped in clean sheets, body free of dirt, Arthur-limbs sprawled over him, the warmth nearly suffocating...

He'd give up anything and everything if he could just stretch this moment with Arthur for the rest of his life.

* * *

  


Six days later and Eames had forged them both Ids with the help Arthur himself and a nephew of Mal's. The lack of technology in current time made it much easier to have a hidden background and there wasn't a single Frenchman who ever doubted them of being on the run.

Mal, knew an empty place back in a quiet suburb and Eames found no trouble forging papers of purchase. Soon enough Arthur and Eames lived in a tiny, old house. But it had running water, a bathroom, bedroom, tiny kitchen and a small living/dining room.  
All of it was more than enough.

They went shopping together at the local market every Sunday, though it had taken Arthur some effort to convince Eames it'd be fine to take him out.  
Eames still kept an eye out for any threat but six weeks living in France later, he finally settled down physically as well as mentally.

When Arthur asked where Eames kept getting money from, the Brit did mention he'd committed some fraud-acts and had robbed quite a lot of people's money stacks. He didn't mention though, that he'd basically stolen about ten thousand Pounds from Saito himself.

He didn't want to worry Arthur.

He as well assured him they were settled for at least a year before they'd have to find jobs. (Though Eames doubted he'd ever quit robbing bank accounts from the rich pigs. A rich pig he himself used to be)

Arthur started gaining some weight after a couple of months, to Eames' great relief. He as well got some colour on his cheeks again, nonetheless he'd always be a wee bit pale.

They continued fooling around, hand-jobs, blow-jobs and a lot of rutting and dry-humping. Eames did note that Arthur wasn't one to take it slow, especially with kissing, but he blamed his teenage hormones for this.  
Arthur wasn't a lovey-dovey kind of boy, and Eames could live with that. He could.

Arthur never failed to turn Eames on beyond comprehension. The boy somehow managed to make him rock-hard within a minute and his natural love ( _and_ talent) for cock-teasing made Eames' blue balls cringe in agony quite often.

Tonight wasn't such a night though, because Arthur, for some inexplicable reason, shoved Eames up a wall without warning and went for it.  
His lithe body pressed easily against Eames' bulk and the latter groaned when Arthur slid a knee between his legs.

“What's this all about, then?” The man murmured, watching the boy curl and arch into him without shame, his lips parted in slow pants before they nipped at Eames' throat.

“You've got new shoes.” Arthur whispered and Eames had to blink a couple of times before he understood.

“You're turned on by my new shoes, Darling?”

“And your socks.”

“My socks?” Eames asked with an amused curl on his lips. Arthur only hummed as a reply and shoved himself closer against him, licking a wet line over his Adam's apple. Eames shivered at the sound of the boy's tongue scraping over stubble and he reached around a hand to squeeze his tight arse.

“They're so fucking ridiculous I just want to take them off.”

“The socks?”

“Yeah... the fucking socks.” Arthur whispered distractedly, working his lips higher as his hands started to roam over Eames' broad chest.

“Okay.” Eames dumbly replied and nearly choked on his own spit when Arthur gracefully lowered himself on his knees and started to untie the man's shoes.

They were standing in the kitchen, Eames had just gotten home from a hunt to find cigarettes, and Arthur had basically jumped him the moment he got inside the tiny room.

“I love these... They're almost as nice as the Italian ones.”

“The ones you made out with and then ruined?” Eames questioned, looking down at Arthur who met his gaze with a smirk on his cupid-bow lips.

“I could get used to this, you know?” Arthur said as he looked back down and pulled off one of the man's shoes.

“Could you now?” Eames rumbled, getting aroused just by seeing the young man on his knees, undressing him like a good, little boy. He knew, without flaw, what Arthur was talking about.

“I think a lot about dominating you.” Eames confessed and Arthur only paused a split second in his movements before he nodded.

“Me too.” Was all he shared, pulling off Eames' other shoe and then just staring at his feet, dressed in navy-blue socks with yellow paisley prints and bright-red triangles. He reached out both hands and Eames heard him sigh as he stroked the insteps of his feet.

“Tell me what to do.” Arthur whispered, barely audible above the blood rushing in Eames' ears. The Brit had to take a couple of deep breaths because fuck... Arthur was subduing and that hadn't happened in over half a year and he could tell him anything to do and he'd probably obey because bloody hell... he already looked undone, roughened up at the edges.  
Arthur's cheeks were pink and his jaws slack, his tongue licking his lips every now and then.

The hottest thing of it all was that Arthur did wait. He waited for Eames to command him... anything. And even though Eames kept quiet for three long minutes, Arthur didn't move an inch, though his breathing became more and more laboured and to see him getting turned on by the prospect of being dominated was the biggest pleasure Eames could imagine.

“Get up.” Eames rasped and Arthur immediately got up. His brown eyes were nearly black when they flickered up to meet Eames'. When the Brit tutted him for looking up, he could see the shiver traveling through the American's body and Arthur bit his lip hard as he looked down.

“Undress, but leave your knickers on.”

As Arthur undressed, Eames took the time to pour himself a glass of water because his mouth was dryer than the bloody Sahara desert and he felt like he'd pass out because of arousal any minute now.  
It had been too long... He'd nearly forgotten how bloody much he loved dominating and disciplining Arthur.

By the time he turned back around, Arthur was undressed but for his grey boxer-briefs, and he waited patiently for further command, with folded clothes in his arms.

“Put the clothes on the table and get on all fours.” Eames demanded and he was sure the quiet groan he'd heard hadn't been imagined.  
Arthur did as was told and Eames started to walk to the bedroom which lied behind the living room that connected to the kitchen.

“Come.” He said without looking back, sure that Arthur would follow.

When he got in the bedroom, he sat down on the edge of the bed and watched Arthur enter the room still on all fours.  
It was degrading, but seeing how much Arthur enjoyed it... see how willing he was to do it without once rolling his eyes or huffing rudely...well, Eames could not be anything less than aroused.

“Stop.” Eames spoke when Arthur was about four feet away from him.

“On your knees. You can sit.”

Arthur bent his legs underneath him, bum resting on calves and hands folded in his lap. He still was looking down and Eames felt like jumping him right there and then.

“I want you to touch yourself until you're on the edge, and then stop. Your hands can never go into your pants.” Eames said calmly, leaning elbows on his knees and watching the boy on the floor.

Arthur exhaled slowly, once more nibbling on his lower-lip before he raised a hand to stroke over his chest.  
He rubbed his thumb a couple of times over the rosy bud and Eames had to bite back the urge to leap forwards and touch every inch of his gorgeous, lean and pale body.

Arthur wasn't a patient boy when it came to his sexuality and it only took him a couple of seconds before he already slipped his hand lower to palm his dick through the fabric of his underpants.

“Oh.” He sighed, tipping his head back and Eames knew this was for show. Arthur was well aware of how much Eames loved his throat.  
He kneaded his bulge a couple of times, his thighs spread, though legs staid bent. His upper body arched back, leaning his weight on his free hand behind him.

The leverage was ideal for thrusting into his hand which he soon after began to do and when his hand stroked higher, over the thin line of pubes on his belly, Eames could see the wet spot darkening the grey fabric.

Arthur continued to rub and knead himself, hips moving in time with his hand, and as his eyes closed and breathing became more and more labored, Eames shivered, ignoring his own rock-hard cock.

The boy began to moan, small pants turning into quiet moans, louder groans and then eventually he started whispering ' _fuck_ 's and ' _oh god_ 's.  
And Eames could only revel in the boy's willingness. He could only be appreciative about Arthur's forgiveness and ability to trust Eames, to like Eames, to kiss him and suck him and bloody masturbate _for_ him.

“I-I'm gonna cum.” He whimpered and Eames immediately told him to stop.

It was surprising to see Arthur was able to tear his hand away from himself, his hips continued to thrust up into the air a couple of times. But he didn't come.

“Take a moment.” Eames quietly said as he got up.

Arthur looked at him for a second, breathing heavily as if in pain, which he probably was. Eames rounded him a couple of times until he was sure Arthur wouldn't come at the first touch and told him to lie down flat on his back.

When the boy lied down on the floor, hands firmly planted on the floorboards, Eames squatted down next to him and carefully hooked two fingers underneath the elastic of his knickers.

Arthur's cock was hot, heavy and hard when he took it into his hand, and the boy moaned desperately, hips moving towards Eames' hand.  
Eames ignored the unspoken request, and instead just adjusted his erection in the small underpants. As the tip of his cock rested on his belly, nearly reaching his navel, Eames then released the fabric. The elastic of the underwear reached up to an inch below the head of Arthur's cock and the tension was visible as the fabric strained the skin of his arousal, indenting slightly.

“I want you to come like this. You're only allowed to move your hips... no hands. Hook your thumbs in the elastic above your arse, strain the fabric over yourself and rut into it.”

Eames went to sit back down on the bed, having a delightful view on Arthur's strained cock and spread thighs. The young man was panting as he hooked thumbs in his underpants to keep them tight and in place.

And then he started to move his hips... up, down, left, right. Any way he could, slow, firm and desperate to find the right friction to make him come.

The room was quiet but for the boy's silent moans and heavy breaths. After a couple of seconds he seemed to have found the right movement, up and a little bit to the right and he started to thrust slow and high against the elastic waistband.

Eames' cock jumped as he watched Arthur's body arch and contort, sweat of effort shining the surface and the desperation in his tiny moans drove him absolutely bonkers.

“Fuck...” He groaned and Eames licked his lips, watching the wet head of Arthur's length try desperately to get under the elastic, which was impossible without using his hands to lift the underpants up. Arthur of course did not disobey and like a good boy he just tried his best to come undone by the standards set by Eames.

His thrusts became more frantic over time and Arthur bordered on the edge of orgasm for what seemed like forever and not long enough.  
His moaning turned loud and lewd, his lungs straining for air, his dick throbbing visibly and after another last arch of his back, shoving his cock up against the fabric of his knickers, Arthur let out the most broken sound Eames had ever heard him out.

His cock pulsed right after, semen pouring in waves after the first few strands had been shot onto his belly and stomach. Arthur's body trembled like a leaf throughout the orgasm and Eames could hear the boy's breathing stop for quite some time before eventually his body dropped onto the floor and he started to pant and gulp for air.

“Good boy, Arthur... I knew you'd be able to do this for me.” Eames growled, squeezing his hands into fists to hold back the urge to jump him. The things he'd give to bury himself in Arthur's arse... Christ.

“God fucking damn it, Eames... I love and loathe your perverted mastermind.” Arthur cursed after having caught his breath and the Brit couldn't help but take that as a compliment.

“What a lovely contribution, Arthur.” He smiled, though Arthur was still lying down and staring at the ceiling, not seeing Eames' expression.

“It's your turn now, right?” The boy asked innocently after a couple of minutes.

“If you insist.” Eames rasped, biting his tongue as he watched Arthur get back up onto all fours, his body trembling and wrecked by the orgasm and his hair a fantastic mess of cowlicks because his head had been tossing and turning on the floor only minutes ago.

As Arthur sucked down his whole length after having tugged off Eames' trousers with great strength and unforeseen aggression, Eames could only curse to himself that this boy would be the death of him.

 

* * *

 


	47. The Heart Has a Heart of its Own

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> e-fucking-motions

_Summer, 2054_

  


Arthur's mind was at peace. For the first time in years his mind was calm, soothing and lacked negative and paranoid thoughts. It was an odd yet relieving sense.  
Though he felt good and very sane, there was still the tiniest part of him that was waiting for the drop. Waiting for the set-back, the trouble that loved him so dearly.

But 'living for a year in Paris' later... nothing.  
The second war had ended nearly half a year ago, and it seemed the world was picking up its damaged parts and reviving itself.  
And Eames the Brit seemed more and more like Eames; Arthur's spouse. Homosexuality was still frowned upon, unless it would be indulged upon for money or slavery. The people they'd meet every week at a market or see on the streets or lived a couple of houses next to them, all believed Arthur and Eames were brothers.  
  
But still... it felt, for Arthur, as if he now was living with a boyfriend rather than the Brit who'd 'captured' him. There was less and less doubt over the man's intentions because it was simply so obvious how much he loved Arthur and how insanely in love he was with him and as time progressed his feelings only seemed to grow for the American.

Arthur, though no longer suspicious of the Brit and fairly certain he'd never hurt or betray him ever again, couldn't yet find it within himself to care about Eames such as the man did for him.  
He still occasionally cringed when kindness would take place between them, though he had moments he could handle it and even craved it.  
The nagging voice in the back of his mind kept telling him that he should never love this man fully for he did not deserve to be loved fully after a life of murdering innocent people, including Arthur's parents.  
Eames might not have killed them with his own hands, but the soldiers that had killed them had been soldiers led by Eames, led _by_ his hands.

Granted, Arthur would never be able to forget that nor forgive. But he could live with it. Right?

“What're you thinking about?” Eames asked quietly and Arthur smiled.

They were lying in bed, it was only seven in the morning and plenty of time left to get up and get ready for the day. They'd been awake for about half an hour, both crawling into each other's embrace, limbs tangled and bodies warm.

Arthur liked this kind of affection though... He was ruffled and groggy with sleep. He could excuse himself for cuddling up with Eames at such times.  
Though his eyes had been closed the whole time -aware Eames had been looking at his face; orange by the morning sun peeking through curtains- the Brit had still been able to tell Arthur was thinking, pondering.

“Us.” Arthur replied, not lying but not telling the whole story either.  
Eames' hand stroked up the planes of his back before he cradled the back of Arthur's head. The younger man hummed and his smile widened, knowing his dimples were showing and driving Eames nuts.

He opened his eyes after another second and met Eames' sleepy gaze. In the morning sun the gray irises possessed a greenish glaze and for a moment Arthur just appreciated this man's beauty.  
He'd aged wonderfully well. He had turned thirty-one a couple of months ago and it seemed that the more wrinkles he got, the more attractive he became.  
Perhaps this was because the lines in his face now were created by smiles and laughter rather than the wrinkles before which had been created by years of frowning and grimacing.

Eames looked, ... well, ... _happy_.

“You look happy.” Arthur murmured his thoughts, blushing because of Eames' intense yet adoring gaze, and he proceeded to hide his face in the man's neck, nudging up his chin with the crown of his head.

“I am.” Eames replied, hugging him closer and taking a deep, slow breath.

“Do you think this is it? This is our happy end?” Arthur asked, nuzzling the little hollow at the base of the man's throat where collarbones met. He took a deep breath, nearly tasting his wonderful scent.

It took a long moment before Eames replied, hugging him even closer to him.

“Yeah, I think it is.” He whispered and Arthur could only grimace at the lie.

* * *

  


 

“Where are we going?” Arthur asked as Eames led him outside later that evening.

It was warm out, the streets lively with people celebrating every single weekend because the wars were over, the world was recovering and there was freedom to shout, sing, drink and fool around.  
The sun was only just starting to set, the dusk creating a lovely atmosphere in the cobbled streets of Paris, lanterns casting warm lights here and there.

They were both dressed in only shirts, trousers and shoes, no need for coats nor a sweater.  
Arthur secretly ogled Eames wearing the button-up that was a bit too small for him and because of this; stretched obscenely over his broad shoulders, back and chest.  
'T was a contrast against Arthur's simple teeshirt which hung loosely on his slim frame, yet aging was starting to put some shape to his muscles, bringing some masculinity to his lean body.  
Eames though, remained double Arthur's size and most likely would, forever in life.

They walked for about half an hour, Eames stroked his back whenever there was an abstinence of people around them and at one point he pushed him against a wall to kiss him.  
It only lasted a couple of seconds but it was enough to leave Arthur feeling sexually frustrated for the remainder of time spent walking to a destination unknown for the American.

Eames stopped them at a corner of a street and then went to stand behind Arthur.

“Alright. No peeking.” He murmured before placing his hands over Arthur's eyes.

“You've got to be kidding me.” Arthur growled, though his stomach flipped at the prospect of a surprise, a treat perhaps.

It took them ages to get where Eames wanted them to be. There were a lot of steps on the way, corners to turn and by the time Eames stopped them, Arthur was already aggravated by the whole ordeal.

Why the heck would he need to be blinded for so long? Couldn't Eames just have him close his eyes at the spot rather than goddamn seven light-years earlier?

“Sit down and keep your eyes closed.” Eames murmured, pulling away his hands and then nudging him until he could feel the back of his knees hit a seat. He lowered himself on it, eyes squeezed closed, and shifted a bit in the soft and cushioned chair.

It was cooler here, inside, though it smelled a bit old and moldy.  
He could tell they were inside somewhere... unless Eames had found a cooler spot, lacking wind, noise, and magically owning a chair.

He heard Eames run up some steps behind him and then fumbling in the distance.  
And then an odd flicking sound followed. It sounded vaguely familiar, Arthur surely had heard it before in life, but it wasn't until light hit closed eye-lids that it all clicked.

“You can open them.” Eames murmured in his ear, startling Arthur as he hadn't heard him get back.

As the boy opened his eyes, his heart seemed to burst in his chest because in front of him was a huge screen on which now the title of Dirty Harry was being projected. Clint Eastwood's name followed suite and as Eames sat down next to him, Arthur had to take some deep gulps to hold back the tears of nostalgia.

He'd told Eames about this movie. Had told him about him watching Westerns with his father back when he was a kid, and how it were some of the most soothing and best memories of his life.

And here they were, at least a year after he'd said this (had only mentioned it once to Eames) in an aged and abandoned movie theater. Many chairs were broken, there was an all-around thick layer of dust on the floor, wallpaper flakes scattered about and Arthur could swear he saw plants growing in one of the corners of the hall.

But well... that only added to the amazement he felt.  
Eames had found them a theater, had somehow gotten a hand on a projector, not to mention his favorite Western... it was unbelievable.

Arthur didn't say a word throughout the whole movie. The sound was crappy, the picture blurry and spotted with burned out holes and it was the greatest fucking moment of his life.

Eames kept quiet as well, watching the film, but more often watching Arthur and when a particular scene came on that reminded him of his father so much it broke his heart at the spot, Arthur grabbed Eames' hand in both of his and swallowed down the pressing urge to cry.

The movie ended about ten minutes too early because the tape was too damaged and though the last scenes and credit-roll lacked, Arthur still leaned back in his seat and stared at the white screen, hands still holding Eames' left one.

“You alright?” Eames asked after a couple of minutes. Arthur took a moment to file away his memories and then looked at Eames' patient, understanding, yet worried face.

“Yeah.” Arthur rasped, voice ruined by the effort he'd had to put into not crying. Arthur didn't cry. Arthur never cried.

Eames just leaned forward, using his free hand to tilt up the boy's chin and then kiss him on the lips.

“There's not a thing in this world I wouldn't do in order to make you smile.” Eames whispered against the boy's lips and it was only after he'd said this that Arthur realized he'd been smiling ever since the movie had ended.

“I wanna go home...” Arthur whispered, and they both knew that when Arthur said 'home' now, it didn't mean America, it didn't mean his past, nor his pride or roots, but it meant where he and Eames lived.

Wherever that might be...

* * *

  


 

It was the first nightmare in over a year.

Arthur dreamed about everything, _everything,_ in one single night.  
About his mother, his father, his childhood, about the world before the war and the world after the war; ruined, destroyed, gray. The world amidst the war; weeping and hurt.  
He dreamed about Eames, Saito, Jean-Pierre, Morrissey and then some more about Eames.

But he was alone. In the nightmare he was alone.  
The dream was a sped-up and -even more- grim version of his life so far. It was about how he'd been left behind by his father first, then his mother and then his own pride having shoved him aside in order to make room for the fondness that inevitably grew more and more the longer Eames maintained in his life, his space.

He loathed Eames in the dream. He shouted at him, hit fists against his broad chest and all Eames did was stare. Telling him he had to leave. Telling him Arthur deserved so much more.  
And Arthur wept for he didn't want more, he didn't want -in the dream- to have a happy life if said existence would be without Eames.  
Oh, how he loathed the man and Christ, how he _needed_ him.

* * *

  


Arthur jerked awake. Sitting up in bed and panting, his whole body sweating, his heart seeming to flutter in his throat by the anxiety of reliving his life.  
It took him a couple of seconds to calm himself down enough to get rid of the rush in his head and then he looked to his left.  
Eames was sound asleep, his face completely unguarded and open... not a sliver of evil to be shown.

This man was all he had now.  
There was no point in escaping to a life that no longer was. There was simply nothing awaiting his return, there was no one to grief his absence.  
Even his home had been bombed to the ground.

Arthur felt tears prickling the back of his eyes. It happened more and more lately. As if his body was starting to cave under the pent-up promise he'd never cry again.

The boy gulped a couple of times before quietly laying back down and then, because he felt desperately alone, he wriggled underneath Eames' arm and against his chest.  
Eames muttered something in his sleep, instinctively tightening the embrace and pulling Arthur closer to him, dipping his nose in his hair.  
Arthur could only bite back his anxiety, the fear and sadness and the hopeless future ahead. He could only fold his hands into tight fists, squeezing nothing because there was just not a single fucking thing to hold on to.

Nothing.

 

* * *

 

 

 

_1 week later_

 

Eames' gaze was **obnoxious**.

“What?” Arthur grumbled, his mouth full with white bread (god, bread was delicious) as he glared back at the man who leaned against the aged counter, one hook of the marble top broken off.

“You've been... _guarded_ , these last couple of days.” The Brit carefully chose his words, sipping from a cup of tea and Arthur could only lower his gaze to his cheese sandwich. He played a bit with the crust, peeling of tiny bits in order to eat them first because he liked them less and wanted to savor the best.

“I'm just tired.” Arthur replied, quickly shoving more bread into his mouth so he wouldn't have to talk.

“You're having nightmares again.” Eames shared, not at all a question and Arthur paused chewing in order to flicker his gaze over the man's face, trying to read the intention as to why he mentioned this and how much he knew exactly.

“Which means something is deeply bothering you once more.”

Arthur shrugged and Eames put down his cup a bit too forcefully. Arthur looked up hesitantly, this time spotting impatience on Eames' features. He quickly chewed and swallowed his food before speaking.

“It's none of your business.”

Eames cocked an eyebrow at that, mouthing an 'oh?' and crossing his arms. The body language was closed-off but as well comforted Arthur because it meant Eames probably was not planning to launch himself over the table and strangle the answers out of him.

“I thought everything was fine between us. Why is it you still, after all these years, have so much bloody trouble speaking up? Will you for once tell me what's on your mind instead of wither away in that stubborn, little brain of yours?”

Arthur only clenched his jaws, taking deep and slow breaths to withhold his anger.  
Anger was good though... He'd rather feel angry and frustrated than scared and confused.

Anger was good. It was survival-tactic, instinctive defense.  
It was fighting, and fighting was better than subduing.

“Nothing is fine between us, Eames. Why don't _you_ get that in _your_ little brain?” There was volume lacking from his voice -never mind the bite to it- and though Arthur would rather not admit this was because he was afraid... he still knew he'd be shitting his pants the moment Eames got pissed off.

“Why are you here then?” Eames asked in a growl and this was the cue to shove Arthur's fear aside and make him rise from his seat. Damn this stupid man! Damn his sickened mind and his sneaky games and his irrational behavior! His selfishness, his cruelty!  
Arthur exploded, slamming both hands on the table and leaning forward, shouting.

“BECAUSE I HAVE NO ONE ELSE!” Arthur bit his tongue straight after for he had meant to say he has _nowhere else to go._.. But well, Eames wouldn't take such details to mind, not with the furious look on his face that proved his brain was only stuffed with agitation, no room left for picking out tell-tales in slips of words or facial expressions.

“I don't have a fucking choice now, do I?! I have nowhere to go or to turn to! If I dare part from you I'll be dead bait! … I just- I have absolutely no choice in this life now and never have in the past. There's nothing out there for me, not anymore.” His voice rasped towards the end. Saying the thoughts out loud was far more painful than having left them in his head, unspoken for _years._

“I've been thrown in here. I've been thrown in a life that has only intended for me to become a miserable mess. It's all easy for you, you were Britain's fuckin' Colonel for most of your life. You were at the winning side. Not me.” Arthur paused and Eames only paled.

“... Never me. I was just a kid. Just a random kid who'd become another death in local statistics if-” He snapped his mouth shut.

“If I hadn't taken you.” Eames finished for him, voice suspiciously calm.

“I just wonder sometimes... if I would've been better of death than captured by you.” Arthur knew these words were doubtfully spoken though they had been bravely believed in the beginning.  
And well, at times such as these, he wondered why he was still surviving when there was not a future to strive for.

“Maybe you would have.” Eames muttered, nodding before turning around to wash his cup in the rusty sink.

Arthur wondered why, after having spoken the truth, after having told Eames what he honestly thought of him and _them_ , why it was that he felt like sinking into a bottomless pit and burning alive right now. Why did it all feel like a cruel lie?

He had no answer to this.  
His mind had been ripped in half from the start. His opinions torn in two. Loathe and love bordering and dancing with one another continuously.

He had no answer.

* * *

  


It was after another week of ' _picture without sound_ ' that Arthur finally understood what it was that had made him grow so cold for Eames whereas before he'd been fine jerking him off, smiling and hugging and sleeping in each other's arms and giggling with him over failed attempts to brew their own alcohol, though it had done the job to some degree (never mind the mad hangover the next morning).

It came to him at one night. He woke alone, Eames' spot already cold when he patted a hand over the mattress and thrown-back sheets.  
Immediately there was a suffocating fear gripping at his throat.  
Arthur got dressed quickly in a pair of sweatpants and a gray T-shirt, not bothering to comb his hair or pull on some socks and shoes.  
He dashed through the rooms, looking for Eames and not finding him anywhere.

The sickening sense of fear crawled up his back with ease and weighed down on his shoulders at the thought of Eames having had enough of their foul moods the past couple of weeks.  
What if he'd left him behind? What if he'd returned to London, what if Saito would take him back?

What if he'd left Arthur alone? Finally, alone. What if he didn't like him anymore?

It was only after a couple of minutes of experiencing anxiety to the degree where his palms got sweaty, his breathing strained and his heart pounded a way through his ribcage, that Arthur finally found Eames.

Seeing the man outside behind their humble home, sitting in his chair on the what-used-to-be-a-porch, allowed Arthur to heave a sigh of relief.

And it was then, feeling the fear and uncertainty slip back off his shoulder to puddle and eventually seep through the ground to disappear, that it hit him.  
It was then, as Arthur leaned against the door post to observe Eames who was lounged in his chair, legs stretched and crossed at the ankles, hands on his belly with fingers folded, his head tipped back and half lid eyes staring up at the sky, _that_ _it hit him_.

It hit him hard.

It hit him to the point it knocked the breath out of him.  
It pounced itself into his consciousness, piercing through denial and blindness with an absolute lack of empathy.

Arthur knew that Eames knew he was standing there, and the silence -unlike during the past weeks- now was comfortable and kind-hearted.  
The American craned his neck, looking up at the same starry sky.

And it was ridiculous to realize how tiny they were and how meaningless their lives were and how little they would ever mean to the universe.  
The pitch-black sky -that night- dotted with white flickers which had died ages ago but still somehow shone for them; was what made the young man realize life was too fucking short and -never mind how meaningless to the cruel self-ruining universe- was too precious to fling away.

Arthur looked back down, meeting Eames' steady gaze. They didn't smile, they didn't so much as blink. But whatever you could call what at that moment wavered between them, spoke louder than any words ever could.

Arthur, that night, realized that what had torn him apart in the presence of Eames was purely the denial of heart.

Arthur, you see, was head-over-heels in love with Eames.  
Arthur was not only 'in love' but he truly did _love_ Eames. Every particle of his being, which explained why every inch of him, body and soul, had been aching from the start at being denied the subconscious truth.

The heart wants what the heart wants.  
Deny her its love and you will _hurt_...

* * *

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PRAISE THE LORD! ARTHUR GOT HIS TEENAGE HEAD OUT OF THE SAND  
> bloody hell m8


	48. The Good Life is Out There Somewhere so Stay on My Arm You Little Charmer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: lots of sexual choking and general roughness

Eames was not certain about how long he'd been seated there, with Arthur leaning heavily against the door post. Their eyes had been locked from the moment he'd noticed him and though expressions seemed blank, blown pupils and creases at the corners of their eyes told a different story if only you were willing to listen for it.

The shift in Arthur's demeanor was obvious to Eames' eye. He could tell by how the boy's shoulders finally sagged and lost their firm edge. His jaw slackened, his breathing slowed down behind the hint of a smile and then his eyes...  
His eyes; void of their normal mockery and suspicions, now softened around their edges. Eames could not remember he'd ever seen those pupils turn to such a soothing, soft-brown, nor did he recall ever witnessing the kindness within widened pupils.

Every single atom in his being had seized their pride-fueled -and self-destructive- battle. Arthur had given up, so to say, and not at all in a negative sense. Arthur had at last realized that what he felt for Eames and what Eames felt for him wasn't something to doubt or feel shameful about.  
It wasn't anything to fight against, not anymore.

Eames smiled, kindly, and Arthur returned it with shy dimples. It was only when a blush spread across his high cheekbones, that Eames realized there was more than just accepted surrender. Beneath the surface floated renewed attraction and if he didn't know any better, Eames could swear he _felt_ Arthur's titillation on the passing breeze. He mentally laughed at himself for the ridiculous thought.

Nevertheless, the arousal that oozed out of the boy's pores, caused his mouth to go dry and his stomach to flutter.

Arthur shifted, licking his lips which finally broke apart the eye-contact as Eames could do nothing else but have his gaze track the path of his tongue. And then the American just threw him a cheeky grin.  
Eames looked away, chuckling to himself, before he rose from the seat; grunting at the ache in his joints. His body was getting too bloody old too fast. A past of physical challenges never followed up with needed relaxation or even medical care, did that to a man.

He paced towards Arthur, noting he didn't move a muscle, and though this could be mistaken for defiance, Eames _knew_ it was out of submission.  
As he crowded him in against the door post, Arthur exhaled heavily, his eyes barely managing to not flutter close. Eames' fingers nimbly rested upon the boy's hip when he leaned in to kiss his throat, wondering whether it was his own pulse he could feel in his lips, hammering away.  
Arthur tipped back his head, the thump loud and hollow against the wood, and Eames seized the opportunity to nip at the skin below his jawline. He could feel him trembling, shivering, nearly vibrating the air around him. Eames hummed at how easy it was to overwhelm this boy.

When he pulled back he could see Arthur watching the sky above with dark eyes and parted lips, his pale hands gripping the door post behind him.  
 _Oh_ , and how beautiful he was, taking his breath away in the most sappy and cliché fashion.

Arthur watched him through thick lashes and after another small smile, Eames brushed past him, fingers gliding over his stomach.

As he paced through their home, his ears narrowed their focus on the soft patting of Arthur's feet right behind him. It made him smirk, how clever and obedient Arthur remained.  
They reached the bedroom soon after and when he was certain Arthur had stepped through the entrance, he turned on his heels and slammed the door shut behind them.  
Arthur choked on a gasp when Eames seized him by the collar with both hands, and slammed him against the wooden portal.

And then he kissed him, hard.

Arthur moaned into his mouth, though whether this was because of surprise, pain or pleasure, Eames wasn't certain about as of yet. Drawing his hands up from Arthur's shirt to his face, cradling it roughly to prevent him from pulling away, the boy grabbed both of his wrists and opened his mouth lewdly wide. Eames wasted no time in licking into him, teeth and tongues colliding in a battle for dominance which both of them knew Arthur would lose.

The American's hands tightened their grip on Eames' wrists before they clumsily pulled away in order to hook arms around his neck. Arthur dragged him closer and Eames pressed every inch of himself he could against Arthur's smaller frame.

It was an unusual turn-on when Eames heard the rustling of his own trousers when he nudged a thigh between Arthur's legs. The silence around them was deafening, only occupied with the slick sounds of lips and tongues, and then restrained breaths mingled with Arthur's moans.

And Eames could not wait. Eames could not be patient when knowing that by the end of the night this same room would be filled by an orchestra of shouts and growls and begging and the slapping of flesh on flesh. He wanted to hear everything until there'd be nothing left. Eames wanted, dearly so, to steal Arthur's voice away and keep it with him until they'd wake in the morning, aching and satisfied.

He pulled away brusquely from Arthur, reveling in the whine that escaped his bruised lips, and then manhandled him around. Arthur let out an 'oof' when Eames shoved him back against the door, but only after having wrapped a hand in his black curls to prevent his head from colliding with the wood.

Neither of them said a word when Eames pulled Arthur's arms behind his back and locked both of his wrists into a hand, and Arthur only hissed as his trousers got pulled down his hips and arse, roughly.

Eames stepped back for a moment, looking at the boy's bare, pale arse, before releasing his arms and brushing a hand up his back, shirt hooked behind his thumb and ascending along with the stroke. He pulled it off straight after, nearly decapitating the poor lad, and then shoved Arthur back against the door (which rattled pleasantly at the impact) with a hand between his shoulder-blades.

Arthur panted against the wood, right cheek and both palms plastered against the surface at head-height.

Eames kept a hand between his shoulders and maintained at arm's distance.

“Step back.” He hoarsely commanded and then squeezed himself through his slacks whilst Arthur tippy-toed towards him, though chest still confined against the door by the man's splayed fingers. Arthur's spine was one, long, lean curve and the arch made his arse stick out in such fashion it caused Eames to consider sobbing at the scene. Clearly enough, he didn't do that.

Arthur gasped as he kneed his legs apart and then sunk down, hand following the trail down his back. Confident he did not need to tell Arthur to keep his palms and arse where they were, he splayed both hands on the full, pale mounds, kneading.

A tiny ' _ah_ ' fell from the boy's lips when Eames planted a soft kiss on his left cheek and then repeated the act upon his right one. He wasn't in a mood to stall, though. He'd have other occasions in the future where he'd be able to find out which sounds he could pull out of the young man.  
And thus, without preamble, he spread the boy's cheeks and swiped his tongue in between. Arthur cursed under his breath and his body subconsciously leaned away which only earned him a slap on his arse.

“Oh fuck.” Arthur groaned, getting back in position and Eames continued licking at his hole, allowing one of his hands to travel a path up into the dip of his back, pressing down a bit to make him arch and open up. As his eyes traveled up, nose and mouth buried in Arthur's arse, he met the boy's gaze; gleaming over a bony shoulder. With pursed lips he sucked and then threw him a wink which caused Arthur to make a strangled sound bordering in between laughter and downright neediness.

And god, Eames could do this forever. He could forever drown himself in the boy's scent and flavor. But he needed more, even as he pointed his tongue and forced it inside and groaned at the tight heat, he still needed so much more.  
Nonetheless he continued fucking Arthur with his tongue, one hand brushing the small of his back, the other trying as best as it could to keep his cheeks spread. When Arthur pushed back into him, whining needly, Eames considered whether a case of blue balls could be lethal.  
He grabbed both mounds of flesh, keeping his tongue pointed as he spread his arse and Arthur -always quick on the uptake- started fucking himself onto his tongue with desperate huffs of breath which sounded strangled and ruined.

Though he'd initially had desired for Arthur to not move from his position, he couldn't be much bothered about the fact he'd brought down a hand to clasp onto the back of his head and push him closer into him. Eames allowed him to take the lead for now, knowing he'd be dominating every single inch of his being by the end of the night.  
Eames was growing dizzy by it. The heat and taste and smell and the sounds of his slick tongue shoving in and out of the boy's hole accompanied with even more gorgeous noises of moans and breathy ' _please, please, please'_ s'... it was too much.

Eames grabbed the boy's wrist before pulling away and then smacked Arthur's arse when he'd tugged his arm and he had whined. Arthur tensed when he rose back to his feet and Eames watched the boy's body tremble in front of him.

It was only when Arthur glanced over his shoulder, eyes smoldering and voice ruined when saying ' _do it, Eames_ ' that he lost most of his senses and just grabbed the boy by the nape of his neck to drag him away from the wall.  
Arthur huffed as he got thrown onto the bed.  
In search of the lube, Eames didn't pay attention to Arthur rolling onto his back, until he glanced sideways and noted he was fully hard and leaking at the tip.

 _Fuck_ , this kid would kill him.

Retreating the tube he'd been looking for, he paced back towards the bed and watched Arthur. The boy was being coy, eyes half-lid and body 'coincidentally' arching and stretching in all the right, lazy manners. Eames shivered, squeezed himself and then roughly pulled at Arthur's ankle to scoot him lower and flatten him out on the bed.  
Arthur sunk little teeth into his lower lip, watching Eames while he drew up his arms to rest loosely somewhere above his head on the mattress. He knew Eames' weak spots, Arthur knew he loved his ribs and stomach which now only got accentuated by his stretched out position.

Naughty, naughty.

Eames tossed the lube on the bed beside Arthur before he climbed on him and laid down.

“Eames.” Arthur breathed his name and wrapped both arms around his neck, pulling him down. They kissed, less feverishly, yet still hasted. When Eames nipped at Arthur's lower lip, curious if he'd taste blood from when the boy had been biting himself, the other bucked up into him and Eames felt the hardness brushing against his slacks. He pressed down his thigh and Arthur let out a shaky breath as his whole body went stiff and arched into the man above him.

“Bloody hell, Arthur.” Eames whispered against Arthur's lips before he blindly reached out in order to find the lube. There was no time, he was hard as a fucking rock and certain he was bruising Arthur's own thigh by rutting his clothed erection against it.  
He wanted to spank him, wanted to eat him out, desired so much to stall his orgasms until tears would roll down his cheeks and he'd beg for Eames to have mercy, or perhaps make him come so many times it would start losing its edge of pleasure and just be painful.

But he couldn't wait any longer. He'd waited for this moment ever since accepting he was attracted to the (then) kid.

Eames pulled away, Arthur's arms falling away heavily and he had to smirk at the sulk on his young features. Arthur watched him squeeze lube onto his fingers, slicking them up and then rubbing them to heat up the cold liquid.

As he leaned back over him, both of the boy's legs now framing him, Eames kissed him slowly. It was surprising that it was Arthur who kicked up the pace a notch and along with deepening the kiss, he wrapped his arms around his shoulders and hooked a leg over Eames' back.

Arthur arched up into him impatiently, whining into the kiss and then nipping at Eames' lips and tongue just to urge him on. Eames used his clean hand to grab him by the hair, tugging so hard it caused Arthur to clench his teeth and hiss and with his throat arched, he glared at Eames above him.

When brushing a slick finger against Arthur's still wet hole, the boy moaned wantonly and his eyes closed. And god, Eames promised himself to not let his sight slip from Arthur's face one second throughout the whole process of fingering him and then fucking him.

Eames leaned a bit on his left, elbow digging in the mattress, fingers wrapped in Arthur's hair and allowing Arthur to throw a leg over his thigh as he lied next to him. And then, because he couldn't fucking wait, not with the view he had on Arthur's pale body arching like a bow and that flustered face frowning and panting with quivering lips, he pressed inside.

Arthur gasped, eyes flying open though they were glazed and dark and most likely unseeing. His little nails dug through Eames' dress shirt, into his shoulder, while his other hand wrenched itself in the sheets beneath them.

“That's it.” Eames whispered when Arthur's body relaxed back into the mattress and thus allowed Eames to slide deeper inside, to the hilt. He loosened the grip on his hair only a little bit, brushing his thumb over the boy's scalp and pulling his finger back out slowly.

He was searing hot inside and impossibly tight. Eames shivered, sliding back in, and prayed to god that prepping Arthur would not take too long. He just needed to be inside him right now, he really, desperately needed to fuck his brains out.

The plan to watch Arthur's face throughout got ruined when the boy rolled towards him, grabbing his neck and burying his face in his shoulder as he threw his leg over the Eames' arm, hooked on the elbow.  
And Eames could only shiver when Arthur started rutting his cock against him, causing his finger to slide in and out on their own.

With his free arm wrapped around the boy's lite frame, he aligned a second finger and Arthur stilled, his breath seizing to in- or exhale. He pressed in slowly, moaning when feeling the muscle clench before it gave way and swallowed him in.  
Arthur trembled in his arms but when he started to mouth at Eames' throat, the latter realized it was okay to move and thus he pulled out only to slide back in, rough and quick. Arthur gasped and when Eames repeated the movement, he sunk his teeth into the man's skin. As punishment for biting him, Eames shifted his arm underneath the kid in order to find its previous place in the massive mess of curls. He tugged him away, hissing when his teeth refused to let go for a split second, and then started to fuck him hard and unforgiving with his blunt fingers.

Arthur gasped on every thrust inside, bouncing on his fingers no matter the horizontal gravity and the mattress underneath him. The force of Eames' hand was enough to warn Arthur about the crudeness that would follow.  
When aligning a third finger, Arthur's eyes opened to half-mast, his head still arched away from Eames _by_ Eames.

“Yeah.” He breathed quietly through blood-red lips and Eames, for a second, believed to spot challenge in the boy's eyes.

He thrust three fingers inside and groaned, satisfied to see Arthur's face scrunch and distort at the intrusion, surely hurting. Eames fucked him in earnest, not stopping -even with the start of a cramp crawling into the muscles of his lower arm- until Arthur was crying out.

“Want me to stop?” Eames whispered with a dangerous tone to his voice though he did mean the question, even when knowing he'd explode if Arthur were to reply with 'yes'.

“N-no.” Arthur frowned, raising his leg higher and wrapping fingers around Eames' bicep.

Eames smiled, then scissoring his fingers until Arthur bucked violently and choked on a shout.  
 _There it is_... Eames brushed the little knot of nerves and watched Arthur's face go slack with pleasure, his body relaxing so much it seemed to be going liquid in Eames' hold.

Eames rolled them over carefully, his three fingers still brushing the prostate as he seated himself between Arthur's spread legs. He brushed his free hand over his stomach, pressing down the tight muscles and brushing harder against the knot inside. He trembled on his fingers.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Arthur whispered with a high and panicky voice. His hands scrambled about, reaching to grab Eames' wrist and pull his fingers out, but it was too late.

Eames watched the orgasm take Arthur by surprise, watched him choke on a soundless scream, watched his body tense, defining every muscle and bone underneath his pale skin. His cock pulsed, spurting out white strokes of semen over his tummy, and his arse clenched painfully tight around Eames' fingers.

Oh and if that weren't the most beautiful sight he'd ever witnessed...

Eames noted, with self-deprecation, that he had stalled even though he'd been chanting he needed to fuck Arthur as soon as possible. Something about this young man, something about his genuine enjoyment made Eames forget about his own throbbing dick and just focus on Arthur's pleasure.

He watched for a moment longer as Arthur laid on the bed, completely spent, panting and loose-limbed. His eyes were gazing at the ceiling and Eames took the calm of the moment to unbuckle his belt.  
Arthur bit his lip at the sound, but didn't look down.

Eames pulled himself out, touching his dick was almost more painful that pleasurable, and then leaned over to lap at the spilled semen on Arthur's stomach. The boy hummed lowly, carding fingers through Eames' hair as the man squeezed more lube into his hand and started to slick himself up.

“I'm going to fuck you, Arthur...” Eames murmured against his pale tummy, enjoying the bitter aftertaste of his seed.

“And I'm not going to be able to stop once I am... so-” He let the sentence linger but Arthur did not stop him, he only shifted a bit to make himself more comfortable, bending his knees and allowing his legs to fall open.

And well, what more invitation did Eames need?

He drew back, looking down at Arthur who was watching him quietly, a deep pink reaching from his chest to the tips of his ears which peeked through strands of black hair. Arthur looked relaxed, at ease and peace, absolutely willing and _ready_ to be taken.  
So, he grabbed his cock more firmly, scooting forward and hooking one leg over his arm, before nudging the head against Arthur's slick and stretched hole.

His eyes traveled back up, watching Arthur closely as he pushed inside, too quick to not be painful but he was out of patience and possessed the knowledge that the ache would turn into pleasure in no time. And fuck was he tight, wet, hot, painfully hot, painful in a manner he'd wanted to die there after an eternity of reveling in it.

Arthur arched, eyes shut and brow furrowed, lips parted around a silent 'o'. With hands grabbing fistfuls of sheets, Arthur allowed the tiniest mewl to slip from his bruised lips, and that was it.

Eames dragged back out, his fingers digging into Arthur's thigh which he was holding up, and listened to the boy's gasp which lasted as long as Eames' movement did. The sound, more than any moan or groan, was possibly the sexiest thing Eames had ever heard.

After a couple of seconds when he could tell Arthur's breathing had calmed down a wee bit, he shoved back inside and groaned at Arthur's yelp.  
As he pulled out, leaving only the tip inside, he sat back, placing a hand on Arthur's hip in order to scoot him higher up his legs and bury himself deeper. Arthur gasped again, as if Eames' cock literally fucked his breath away.

Pulling up the boy's left leg so the ankle rested on his shoulder and the curve in his knobby knee was ridiculously elegant, Eames started fucking him, lazily but not slow nor soft.  
Arthur moaned, licked his lips and then stretched his arms above him to hold on to the pillows which provided absolutely no stability whatsoever.  
Eames nosed at the ankle on his shoulder, tilting up his leg and then nipping at the sole of his foot with his hand firmly grasping the boy's instep.

“Eames, please.” Arthur whined, eyes opening and making Eames' chest grow tight with more than lust when seeing those eyes so unguarded, everything about him so unguarded... so open and trusting and beautiful. Eames changed his mind about the most beautiful sight having occurred minutes ago.

 _This_ was it.

As he drove himself deeper and deeper into him, as he lazily nipped at his foot, as his fingers buried their selves into his bony hip, Arthur grew more and more meek until only a puddle of absolute surrender lied within Eames' hands and sight.

Yes, this was definitely it.

Eames tossed his limb aside and grabbed Arthur's ass in both hands, shoving him down on his dick, hard and fast.

“Yes!” Arthur croaked and his body curved and tensed on him. Eames shifted until he was leaning on an elbow, face hovering over Arthur's and his chest resting upon the boy's.  
He slid up a hand, his mouth dry, and wrapped fingers around the boy's throat which immediately rewarded him with a vibrating moan.

“Good?” Eames asked lowly, his voice but a growl and his hips increased their pace, thrusting in and out of Arthur with more force than would be necessary to have them both enjoy the fucking.

“So good, Eames, please.” He incoherently replied, frowning when he didn't get a kiss but only a swipe of Eames' tongue over his lips. But as he tightened his hand more and more with each time he drove home; Arthur's frown disappeared, making way for absolute bliss to rest upon his features.

Seeing him like this felt even better than the slick heat squeezing around his dick. Seeing Arthur trust him enough to allow him to choke him in an act of passion, in an act which could end so badly so easily... well fuck, that felt great.  
He was thrilled to be hurting Arthur, knowing he was the only one Arthur would ever allow to hurt him physically and he loved it... He loved the expressions of pain on his face and in his body, enjoyed the sounds he'd make and the desperation that lingered underneath.

Arthur allowed him to take him apart because he knew he'd put him back together in the end.

Eames groaned at the realization and moved his hips quick and hard, the sounds of their colliding bodies and heavy breathing more beautiful than any symphony and as Eames tightened the grip on his throat, he could feel Arthur tense _down there_.

He barely was able to comprehend how Arthur could grow more tight than he already had been. That question didn't matter as he fucked Arthur ruthlessly, the back of his shirt soaked with sweat, the air in his lungs hot and straining.  
And Arthur... his face red, his mouth gaping, his frown returned and his hands coming up instinctively to grab a hold of Eames' wrist. It was a sickening turn-on to know he could just choke him out right now, heck, he could even kill him, right here, and Arthur would never be able to stop him.

“Fuck.” Eames groaned, dipping his head on Arthur's shoulder as he loosened the grip on his throat. Arthur coughed and wheezed for breath but before he could inhale a second time, Eames' hand squeezed harder and along with it -once more- felt Arthur's hole clench brutally harsh.

He leaned back up, keeping a close eye on Arthur's face as he continued to fuck and choke him. They were both getting closer to the edge and he could tell Arthur was completely off this planet, floating in pleasurable agony as Eames loosened and tightened his hand over and over and over again.

Arthur's hands had seized their attempt to hold onto Eames' wrist, no strength left with the lack of oxygen running through his system. Eames looked at those small, pink palms, bared as they lied up on the mattress framing Arthur's flaming red face. Eames watched those fingers twitch and then watched his lips tremble. He loosened his grip one last time, fucking him with such force they scooted up the bed, getting dangerously close to the headboard which by now banged against the wall.

And then, when Arthur watched him through thick, moist lashes, when watching a tear roll from his eye as he tightened his hold on his slender throat, when hearing the weak, high-pitched sound somewhere on the back of the boy's tongue, he tumbled over the edge.

He came in violent waves, shocking through him and lengthening the orgasm impossibly long. He groaned all the way through, and then heard Arthur wheeze as he came himself, spurting onto both their bellies.

Eames let go of Arthur's throat immediately before slumping down heavily on top of him. Arthur coughed around his moans and wrapped firm arms around him, keeping him close even though his weight must be restraining, and rode it out against him.

It took them both ages to recover from the fucking and even though Eames wanted to pass out, he still rolled off Arthur to drag him into his arms and plant featherlight kisses on his head, nose, eyes, lips until eventually he leaned down and kissed every single bruise on his throat.  
Eames wasn't sure if he'd went overboard, but Arthur was scratching his head, petting his hair and back and sighing softly... so it seemed he was as satisfied as Eames.

They didn't talk, they didn't need to.  
Words were often unnecessary, after all communication beheld much more than sound alone.

They fell asleep in each other's arms, neither of them bothering to mind the mess in between and underneath them.  
At least the metaphorical mess had been swiped clean.  
At least this time, they'd wake up unworried and perhaps even bloody happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shudders* not too happy about this one. took me too long and took too much effort. haven't been in the still ill zone lately.


	49. We Have Been Through Hell and High Tide, I Can Surely Rely on You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnigs: some mild puppy play, bondage and gagging, 
> 
> and then a bit of angst to spice it up

Arthur woke some time later. He moaned sleepily, curling into Eames' warm body behind him and then stirred when feeling something inside him.

“You were still wet.” Eames explained into his ear and Arthur shuddered as he slid two fingers into him, the movement slick with left-over lube and Eames' seed.

“What time is it?” Arthur muttered lazily, stretching and arching into the man's ministrations. He was sore inside -throughout his whole body- yet still the fingers, thrusting into him slow and gentle, made Arthur's cock twitch in interest.

“Six.” He replied before nipping at his earlobe. Arthur grinned into his pillow, rolling onto his front and satisfied at the rumble this drew from Eames' chest.

“You make me happy, Arthur. Do you know that?” His lips murmured against the nape of Arthur's neck and the fingers inside him increased their pace. Arthur moaned and curved his back, arching up his ass, fucking himself slowly onto the digits.

The words, finally, did no longer cause him to cringe and instead of disregarding the confession as he would've done in the past, Arthur turned his head to rest a cheek on his crossed arms.  
He glanced at Eames who was looking down at him, eyes half-mast, licking his lips as he drove three fingers inside and Arthur purred at him.

“I know.” Arthur shared, shivering with a hot flush traveled from the tips of his toes to the top of his head when Eames brushed knuckles against his prostate.

“Good.” Eames murmured, not at all as unaffected as his voice shone out to be, going by the flush on his cheekbones. Eames leaned down and kissed him on the corner of his smiling mouth, stubble prickling.

The silence was comfortable and the arousal built up slowly yet steadily. Eames continued fucking him with three fingers and Arthur remained fully relaxed, occasionally bucking up to meet his digits half-way. It made Eames hiss each time, the sound loud next to his ear where he seemed to have set camp, nibbling on the shell and whispering occasional filth.

“Arthur...” He groaned after long minutes. Arthur on his turn shivered, his skin breaking out in goosebumps and a heat seeming to consume him from the inside out.

“Are you hard?” Arthur asked him and heard Eames snap his mouth shut, teeth clacking.

“Yeah.” Was his reply and as he thrust inside him continuously, Arthur felt his whole body moving along with his hand and then felt a hardness rubbing against the back of his thigh.  
Arthur keened because he hadn't noted before that Eames was as well completely naked underneath the sheets. His body almost immediately melted into the mattress below.

“Do you want to fuck me?” Arthur queried, throwing a sly glance over his shoulder only to met by a pair of dark eyes appearing to devour him whole.

“Yes.” Eames breathed almost desperately and Arthur buried his face back into his arms, lifting his ass and mumbling for him to ' _go on then_ '. The Brit groaned before pushing himself up on his elbows and throwing a leg over Arthur's. When the boy wanted to spread his own, Eames tutted.

“No, keep them closed, Darling.”

Arthur obeyed and relaxed into the mattress. Eames sat himself on the boy's thighs, his weight heavy but not uncomfortably so. The sound of a cap being undone chimed through the room, and Arthur irrelevantly wondered where Eames had gotten a bottle of lube from whereas last night he'd had a tube.

The question faded when Eames spread his cheeks gently and then nudged the blunt, slick head of his cock against his hole. He pressed in slowly and it stung far more than it had last night, but that was to be expected as he'd been fucked raw _and_ for the first time.  
Arthur grit his teeth and with sheer willpower alone, made himself relax. They waited -Eames' breathing as labored as Arthur's- for the ring of muscle to relax and give way.  
It didn't take long and when they both sensed it, Eames slid farther in, a slow steady burn until he was buried to the hilt and seeming to strangle Arthur's airways from the inside out by its determination to consume every inch of his being.

“ _Eames._ ” Arthur groaned, digging his fingers into his own elbows and then sinking teeth into his forearm.

“Sh-sh Darling... You can take it. I know you can. You're so good... _so bloody good._ ” The praise soothed the ache to some degree and Arthur licked his lips, took a couple of deep breaths and then nodded.

Eames pulled back out, slow and gentle, and along with his cock, Arthur's pain seemed to get dragged out with it.

“That's it.” Eames whispered, one hand stroking up his ass to rest in the small of his back where he thumbed at the dimples. His other hand still had its fingers splayed on a cheek, holding it aside to give easier way to his cock.

“Such a good boy.” He murmured when he slid back inside. Arthur wasn't sure what had made his heart flutter to the point he could feel the pulse on the back of his tongue; the praise or the slow, filling press into him.  
When he pulled out again, only the tip remaining inside his hole, Eames leaned forwards with elbows planted on each side of Arthur's shoulders. The next stroke in was a bit faster and hit home that bit more demanding.

“Harder.” Arthur croaked and recalled that his voice was not only crackling with sleep but as well by the bruises on his throat which hurt him whenever he swallowed or so much as clenched his teeth.

Eames granted his wish, pulling out and slamming back inside, his pelvis slapping against the boy's ass. The sound was obscene in the silence of the room and Arthur would've cringed if it weren't for the fact he was turned on to the point his hips now automatically rutted down into the mattress.  
Each pound into him caused Arthur's own erection to get crushed against the cushions beneath and it took not long at all before they were both moaning and gasping, fucking thoroughly.

“Up.” Eames panted, pulling Arthur up to his knees roughly. The boy planted both hands against the headboard, the leverage allowing not only Eames to fuck into him as hard as he desired, but as well for Arthur to shove himself back onto his cock. They met each other's thrusts and Eames mumbled incoherent words, rambling as he neared release.

“Fuck... Eames. _Fuck._ ” Arthur whined non-stop as the Brit drove into him painfully deep. Nonetheless, not even the hurt could prevent him from full-body-shuddering into orgasm when Eames jerked his cock only three times.  
The man followed suite, with a bruising hold on his hips, spurting inside of him, and a growl rumbling from his chest.

They both flattened out on the bed straight after. This time Arthur found enough energy to curl up his nose when landing in his own wet spot. Eames panted against his nape, his hands running over his whole body sloppily, mapping any skin he could reach. Words clung around his exhales and Arthur only could translate a few.

They were all sappy and obnoxiously sweet. And still Arthur's heart swelled.

“I wanna stay inside you all day...” Eames murmured against his skin and Arthur smiled into the pillow.

“I'd let you.” He said and the reply made Eames groan and nip at his throat.  
They dozed back off.

Together.

* * *

 

 

Eames never enjoyed doing finances and Arthur highly doubted that what he did at the tiny desk in the corner of their bedroom, truly included anything that hadn't to do with fraud and criminal acts.  
Nevertheless, there were always a few wrinkles crowding the man's forehead when he seated himself behind his desk and rustled through papers in a passive aggressive fashion.

Arthur paused in drying his hair and stared at the Brit for a moment. Eames didn't notice him, only an oil-lamp illuminating his work and face as he scribbled down furiously.  
The boy smirked to himself, dropping the towel to the floor and pacing closer to the man. He'd just gotten out of a semi-cold shower and at eight thirty in the evening it wasn't unusual for Eames to not pay attention to his surroundings.

Such contrast with the Eames he'd met so many years ago; paranoid, suspicious and always on the lookout for a knife desired to be stabbed into his back.

But now, on this night, just the two of them, in their home, in their little world in their little perfect life, their past didn't matter.

Arthur tip-toed closer and smiled as he watched the intense focus on Eames' profile as he stared down at the papers sprawled on the desk. Without a sound -which wasn't hard when being completely naked and thus void of any rustling garments- Arthur sunk to his knees and on all fours paced the last couple of inches towards him.

Eames wasn't aware of his presence until Arthur nudged his thigh with the tip of his nose.

“What's this then?” Eames rumbled, moving his arm aside in order to look down and meet Arthur's eyes. The boy smiled with coy shyness before nipping at the fabric of the man's slacks, tugging.  
Eames' pupils widened before he dropped down his pen and brushed his hand over Arthur's wet hair, swiping it away from his forehead. Arthur arched into it, closing his eyes and humming.

Eames continued petting his head, the strokes slow and long, reaching from forehead all around and down to the nape of his neck where he squeezed each time. Arthur shuddered, his smile disappeared in order to lick his lips before sinking teeth into them.

“You're beautiful like this.” Eames murmured, curling a finger underneath his chin and tipping his head aside.  
Even though their 'first time' had been nearly five days ago, the bruises of having been choked were colored a harsh red, some of their edges yellowing. His throat still scraped when he rose his voice and it was the most arousing pain he'd ever experienced. It only reminded him daily, hourly, of what had happened between them. Arthur enjoyed the memory, recalling the trust between them, recalling how he'd tipped off the earth and had Eames pull him back up, unharmed and delicately loved.

It had been wonderful.

“I like them.” Arthur whispered before glancing up through his lashes. Eames smiled.

“As do I.” His voice rumbled before he pulled his hand away and tapped his thigh instead.

“Up.”

Arthur groaned quietly before getting up to straddle Eames' lap. Eames scooted his chair back and then gently pressed against Arthur's chest in order to make him lean back. With elbows planted on the desk behind him, Arthur licked his lips and gazed at Eames with half-lid eyes.

“What're we gonna do now?” Arthur whispered, his stomach tensing when Eames brushed his fingers over it, traveling down south. He shushed him, his gray eyes dark and almost glaring. It caused Arthur to tense on his lap.

After a soft sigh, Eames reached up and started undoing his tie and Arthur watched carefully, something inside him jumping at the possibilities of what was to be done to him, _with_ him.  
Eames smiled reassuringly when pulling him away from the desk, closer to him. Calmly he looped the tie around Arthur's throat, knotted it, and tugged at it to make sure it would not get off easily. There was little space left between his skin and the tie, though Eames had made sure to keep a finger between whilst he'd been tying the fabric.

“I can't believe you just put a purple, paisley tie on me.” Arthur mumbled and then stirred when Eames glanced up at him. A firm hand placed itself around his mouth, squeezing his jaws harshly and Arthur mewled behind Eames' warm palm, eyes widened.

“No talking, Arthur.” He held him for another couple of seconds, eyes burning, before Arthur finally looked down and his body seized its instinctual tension to participate in a fight if necessary.

Eames let go and then leaned forwards, wrapping an arm around the boy's waist to secure his balance as he fetched something from the desk.

Arthur frowned when the man dangled a pen in front of his face and then suddenly tossed it through the room. Arthur blinked, quirking a brow at the man who's face was as unreadable as it could get. If it weren't for his dilated pupils, Arthur would wonder he was even fooling around and 'playing'.

“Go fetch.” Eames whispered, tapping him on the thigh and pulling back both of his arms to allow Arthur space to move. He wasn't sure if he'd heard that correctly. Arthur looked at the pen on the floor at the other side of the room and then back to Eames. Then repeated the process another couple of times.

Eames just smirked lazily behind fingers that curled in front of his lips, his chin resting heavily on his palm.

“Shall I help you?” He asked after a while, uncharacteristically patient, and as he tugged at the tie, Arthur realized it wasn't just a garment but Eames had put it on him as a make-shift collar with leash.

He grimaced for a moment before getting up and glaring at the pen once more.  
This was an odd game. Granted he'd been making out with his shoes in the past, eaten on the floor and not even been angry when discovering Eames had been fingering him in his sleep a couple of days back.

But fetching...

That didn't even seem like something that would turn him _or_ Eames on. But then there was that thrill prickling the stem of his brain... The excitement to obey, to be commanded and forced and not having a choice (if he were not to desire to get punished)... Well, okay, yeah, that _was_ exciting.

When Arthur wanted to take a step, Eames reached out with his free hand, tugging at the tie.

“Down.” Alright, that gravel in his voice and those cold gray eyes leering at him, mouth hidden behind his fingers, thus disabling Arthur from reading his expression... that was a turn on.

Arthur went down on hands and knees and then took a trembling breath, closing his eyes and collecting the strength to get over the humiliation and cherish the domination.

And then he crawled, feeling Eames' eyes burning on him. When he reached the pen, he peeked over his shoulder, confirming the fact Eames was still ogling him.

“With my mouth, Sir?”

Eames smiled and Arthur knew it was because he'd called him Sir, just like that, without having been told to. The man blinked slowly, lips curling behind his fingers and he then nodded once.

Arthur bent over, keeping his backside high up because he knew Eames was watching and then carefully locked his teeth around the pen. As he turned back around, crawling towards Eames, he could feel the arousal prickle the bottom of his spine. Perhaps because he could see Eames turn his chair, feet spreading out to give him room between his legs. Or maybe because of the liberation that went along with blindly obeying.

When he came to a halt between the man's legs, he looked up with the pen still clutched between teeth and lips. Eames' eyes were dark, pupils completely blown and for a long moment he only gazed at him.

Arthur smiled around the pen as he looked back down, shyly almost, and sat his backside down on his calves, hands on thighs.

“Fuck, Arthur... Just look at you.” Eames whispered, sounding genuinely in awe. He stroked fingers through the boy's hair and Arthur hummed, closing his eyes and leaning into the touch.

After another few strokes, he held his hand in front of Arthur's face, palm up.

“Loose.” He commanded and Arthur carefully dropped the pen into his hand, which Eames proceeded to put back on his desk.

“Good boy.” He complimented and Arthur felt the hand in his hair tighten its grip. Along with the hold, the atmosphere shifted and the boy meekly complied his next orders.

“Elbows on the floor, arse up.”

Arthur obeyed, and obediently crawled more underneath the chair when Eames urged him with a hand on the swell of his ass.

“Yeah, just like that. That's perfect, Arthur.” Eames murmured, hands kneading his bottom which stuck up between the man's spread thighs, giving him all the room to touch and look. Arthur smiled at the praise, resting his cheek on crossed arms and staring absently at the back right paw of the chair he lied underneath of.

Eames pulled back one hand and Arthur listened to him open a drawer and rumble through it before he got up from his seat. Arthur watched his wingtips round the chair, the leather creaking with every step and as this sound made his heart flutter, he considered to believe he had some kind of shoe fetish. (As if he hadn't had enough proof of that before. Arthur enjoyed to deny, though.)

Eames squatted down in front of him, upper body completely hidden behind the chair.

“Give me your hands.” He whispered, reaching out his palm under the furniture. Arthur noted the white rope in the other.

Eames tied a wrist to each back-leg of the chair with not an inch of space between the rope and wood. Arthur trembled on his elbows, supporting his awkwardly-curved weight. He wallowed within the satisfaction that came along with being left unprotected, vulnerable and completely at the hands of Eames. The heat that warmed his cooled skin felt almost cruelly good.

“Open your mouth.” He then murmured, leaning down on a knee to peek underneath the chair's seat.

Eames took the tie Arthur was wearing and calmly rolled it up and up until he placed the thick knot into his mouth.

“Bite.”

His teeth sunk into the fabric and he moaned quietly. The cloth was thick, enough to muffle his voice and labor his breathing a bit. But it was he who held it in place. Eames gave him the opportunity to let go of the fabric in order to say the safe-word if that would be necessary.

“Perfect. Don't let go of that tie. When I'm done I want to see it soaked with spit, and I want to see all the creases identical to how I've folded it.”

Arthur groaned, curling his fingers into fists and dipping his head. Eames walked back around, throwing a leg over his lower-body and sitting down on the chair.

“If you'd be unable to discard the tie in order to pronounce the safe-word, tap your insteps on the floor rapidly, non-stop.” Eames spoke calmly and just the idea that this man believed there was a possibility he'd be needing to stop prematurely was enough to turn Arthur on to the point he could feel himself growing almost fully erect.

What was he going to do?

He didn't do anything for a long time, most likely just looking down at his ass which by the strain of his position was slightly spread, revealing a glimpse of his hole. Arthur jumped when Eames rested a hand on him and then banged his head against the chair. A muffled ' _fuck_ ' rolled in his mouth, exit blocked by the cloth and he heard Eames chuckle.

“Easy, Pet. No need to startle.”

Arthur wanted to roll his eyes, but he didn't because he preferred to focus his attention on the man's large, calloused hand stroking his ass and the back of his thighs.

There was a prickling anticipation sparking around them and Arthur knew Eames had not tied him up just to have a rub at him. The answer came about five minutes later when out of nowhere Eames slapped him.

Arthur shouted into the tie, nearly dropping it. He clenched his teeth and closed his lips around the fabric, white-knuckling his fists, nails digging crescents into his flesh.

Eames shushed him quietly, stroking over the warm spot before he spanked his other cheek. Instinctively, Arthur tried to crawl away, which was of course impossible were he not to want to dislodge his elbows. Not to mention...

“Arthur, if you dare pull away, I promise you'll regret it for the rest of the week.”

He groaned, muffled, and spread his arms to drop his chest onto the floor, a cheek resting on cool floorboards. Eames hummed as this movement only caused Arthur's spine to arch harder and display his hole even more lewdly.

“Stay on your elbows, Arthur.” And Arthur obeyed... blindly.

The next slap stung more and got followed with a second one before he soothed the skin with soft strokes.

“We're at four now. I want you to keep count, Arthur.” The boy cursed but the word was incoherent and sounded more like a plead than anything else... perhaps it was.

Eames spanked his other cheek twice as well, before soothing it. The pain wasn't major, but it was enough for Arthur to tense whenever Eames removed a hand, preparing for the impact which tha man casted at random given moments, disabling Arthur to ever predict his timing.

The slaps became harder, more painful and quicker to follow one another up. The soothing now had transferred to kneading his burning skin, dry thumbs brushing the rims of his hole, making it clench instinctively, _hungrily_.

Eames spanked him for another thirty-something times, until Arthur's body was recoiling and his moans had become one long whine. It hurt. It hurt more than one would imagine it to. The slightest breeze would now hurt the burn on his skin.

Eames pulled his hands away and the silence, the lack of smacks and whining, was deafening. Arthur flinched at the sound of a cap being undone. Another couple of seconds later, Eames rested a gentle hand on his cheek and Arthur mewled at the nagging ache the touch caused.

Eames thumbed at his entrance, before brushing a more slick finger over it. Arthur gasped and nearly choked on his own spit. The tie, now, was as good as completely soaked by his saliva, the texture soppy, heavy and straining.

The next hit was unexpected. Arthur's body had been prepared for being entered, not for being smacked. Arthur groaned and cursed, before chuckling masochistically to himself at Eames' sneakiness.

Eames must've heard the laughter in his moan because he shushed him and then smacked him on the back of his thigh where the curve dipped before rounding back up to his ass. Now that hurt even more, the sting sharp and biting, and Arthur felt tears jump to his eyes. Though he hadn't cried in years, tears had still slipped when Eames had fucked him for the first time and now as well they began welling up.

It didn't count though. This wasn't crying in the sense of absolute emotional turmoil and agony. This was crying because of physical pain, sexual frustration and even sexual _satisfaction_. Arthur was rock-hard and when he dipped his head further to peek underneath him, between his quivering arms and trembling legs, he could see himself leaking a drop and strand of pre-cum.

With one hand holding the back of his thigh, thumb stroking Arthur's perineum and making him shudder on knees and elbows, Eames proceeded to slick up his hole with one finger. Arthur was tense, expecting to be entered any moment and it took him a couple of minutes before he finally started to relax, enjoying the thumb massaging him just above his balls, and the now-two fingers rubbing and stroking his hole.

Eames nudged a tip in and Arthur moaned quietly, closing his eyes which hadn't been taking in any sights anyways, and forcing himself to breath deeply through his nose and make himself relax.

“Good boy, Arthur.” Eames' intonation showed surprise and satisfaction and it made Arthur swell with pride, sighing into the soaked fabric as Eames slipped his finger inside, slow and steady.

He hummed, or growled, one hand pulling back up to knead his ass roughly, hurting the damaged skin.

“Can you take two for me, Darling?” Eames whispered, scraping nails gently over his skin while pulling out until the tip was left in and aligning a second finger next to the previous one. Arthur shuddered, doubting he could take it without pain, but he urged to please him, needed to be filled up and just speed up this little game of his', because his balls were honestly starting to turn blue, or feel like it in any case.

He ' _hm-hm_ 'd in muffled confirmation and then listened to Eames hiss as he slid two fingers inside, slow and sharp. Arthur keened, squeezing his eyes more tightly shut and digging fingernails into the palms of his hands. It hurt, the ache more bright and vicious next to the dull buzz on his cheeks and the back of his thighs.

His hole clenched and Eames breathed out slowly when his fingers were completely inside, waiting for the spasms to settle.

“God, Arthur, you're doing so good. So good.” He awed, stroking his thigh in long, slow motions.  
He felt Eames move his body, clothes rustling and then soon after, cold lube cascaded over his hole and Eames' fingers.

He slid back inside, turning his hand slightly as he inserted his fingers, more rough and Arthur groaned against the gag. Eames started to fuck him slowly, scissoring his fingers whenever they were inside of him before pulling back out and screwing back in.  
Arthur felt excess lube dripping down his balls and in combination with Eames' fingers digging into his hipbone now and squeezing his thigh then... he could only sob dryly into the tie.

“Oh Darling... just look at you.” Eames whispered hoarsely as he started fucking him quicker but not nearly hard enough, causing Arthur to lose a bit of his mind. The arousal in combination with being gagged and laboring his breathing made him float in no time and it was beyond his conscious when he started moving to meet Eames' thrusts.

His body was burning up from the inside out, an agonizing climb to an orgasm which would not peak if Eames would not move 'just so'. Arthur was at this man's mercy and it took his fucking breath away.

God, he needed to talk, needed to _beg_ him to stop teasing and just take him harder, rougher. Arthur keened and whined and tried desperately to grind his hole onto the man's fingers, telling him to just get started already.  
But Eames just tutted him, slowing down his pace and squeezing his hip to keep him still.

“What do you want, Sweetheart? Let me know what you want.” Eames teased, Arthur could hear the smirk in his voice and he angrily tugged his hands and cursed into the fabric.

“What's that?” Eames taunted and Arthur continued to call him every ugly name in the book, confident he couldn't understand them but still allowing him to vent.

Eames stopped moving altogether and Arthur just growled, tugged and curling his toes in agitation.

It wasn't until he was completely quiet, that Eames pulled out his fingers slowly and got up from the chair. He squatted down in front of Arthur and started undoing his restraints.

“Loose.” Eames murmured, hand reaching in front of him until Arthur opened his strained jaw and dropped the tie into his hand. He watched Eames' fingers knead the fabric, inspecting the folds, listening to him hum pleasantly.

“Well done.”

Though he was loose from the ropes and gag, he didn't move nor talk, knowing better than to do such.

“Sit on the chair.” Eames commanded and Arthur licked his lips as he watched those lovely shoes walk past him.

He crawled a bit awkwardly from beneath the chair, muscles strained and then got up. He went dizzy immediately but Eames grabbed his arm and hushed him gently.

“I got you, Arthur.” Eames cooed before turning him and pushing him down on the chair. The cold wood was as much of a soothe as it was an ache to Arthur's burning cheeks.

“How are you feeling?” Eames asked, leaning down to look into his eyes. He felt exhausted, but too horny to mind.

“Good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Arthur smiled and Eames returned the expression before brushing a strand of sweaty hair behind his ear. A thumb brushed below Arthur's eye and he watched Eames' own narrow.

“Have you been crying?”

“Almost.”

“Because of the pain?” He asked and Arthur nodded. Eames licked his lips and when Arthur glanced down, he could see the massive bulge the man was sprouting in his slacks.

“How many times did I slap you?” He asked then, voice louder as he rounded the chair. Arthur stirred, having completely forgotten about counting.  
Eames wrapped the rope around the boy's wrists again, pulling his arms behind him and Arthur's scalp prickled when he was being cuffed to the chair's backrest.

“I don't remember.” Arthur muttered, dipping his head shamefully and only being faced with his red erection. It _looked_ painful and it _was_ painful.

“You don't 'remember' or you don't 'know'?” Eames cryptically asked before coming to stand in front of him again, hands behind his back, legs slightly spread as he towered over him.

“I don't know.” He truthfully replied. After all, there was nothing to remember because he honestly hadn't counted.

“Oh, Arthur, you naughty little bugger.” Eames smiled, coldly, before flicking a finger against his erection. Arthur yelped at the hurt and his body coiled into itself as much as was possible with arms pulled back behind the chair.

“That just won't do.” Eames muttered before calmly turning around and leaving the bedroom.

Arthur blinked at the closed door, the kind of punishment all too familiar to him. This was the worst one; being ignored and left to your own for god knows how long.

And Eames _knew_ him. He knew Arthur well enough to realize that this would set the boy's brain into motion until it had devoured itself to the point he was in near literal ache and thus fulfill the punishment on itself.

Arthur closed his eyes and started breathing slow and deep, making himself relax and urging his erection to just settle down for the time being, no matter how much he wanted to come.

He stilled his brain from thinking too much, focusing on his lungs and the heat in his buttocks and then succumbing in the darkness when after half an hour the oil-lamp finally dimmed and lost its flame.

It wasn't until hours later when his body began to ache and his muscles began to cramp and his own heartbeat was becoming too loud to bear, that Arthur's thoughts could do no other but distract his senses from the physical pain by the hand of analyzing anything that came across his tired brain.

And no matter the state of mentioned brain, his every thought always was intoxicated by Eames, Eames, Eames, Eames.  
Whereas the worry before had been why Eames was present in his every thought, by now Arthur only questioned as to _how_ Eames was present in his every thought.

In a world like this, it was hard to tell whether you were ever being honest with yourself, let alone know your own opinions or believe in dreams that were too frail to not get crushed underneath daily struggles and subconscious worries. You'd have to have an iron spine and militarized walls framing your mind in order to know who you were, truly **know**.

Hence, how could one ever be certain of their own emotional bond with another?

Arthur still thought about his past, his roots, the standards he'd gone by and the standards he'd let go over the years. His mind had slipped through his fingers which were still too busy trying to hold onto his sentimental heart; pulsing into every direction.

Sometimes Arthur would wake in the middle of the night and though this was no longer preluded by nightmares and memories of his parents and the abuse he'd been through, his breath would still be labored and his chest would still desire to crack by the pounding inside of it.  
Arthur felt lost. When he thought about it, when he reeled back his consciousness from the bliss calm, he always ended up with more questions than he had answers for.

And though Eames would always be the biggest issue in his martyred mind, Eames as well was the one who'd soothe his brain to a brilliant darkness.

Right and wrong had seemed to lost their ways and instead tangled themselves together until you could not see where one began and the other ended.  
And that was it, wasn't it?

Arthur did not recall when it had all begun and he most certainly could not find within himself to so much as _imagine_ his end.

 


	50. I'm Throwing My Arms Around Paris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short chapter which I didn't even reread because I just needed to get it online and get over myself.
> 
> This chapter had a whole different 'story-line' to it in the beginning. And it kept giving me troubles until finally I deleted it completely and started over with a whole new plot.
> 
> Anyways, so yeah, not rewritten nor reread, so apologies for repetitive words or spelling mistakes.  
> Just take it and hope for something better in the next one.
> 
> Previous chapter, for those who've forgotten, was about Eames and Arthur getting frisky. Ending; Arthur tied to the chair and left behind.

 

Eames knew something was off the moment he stepped back inside and saw Arthur slouched on the chair. His head dipped down, all of its weight pulling the muscles in his back and neck, strained tight by his arms which were still tied behind him.

He stepped quickly towards him and squatted down, taking a hold of Arthur's chin and lifting his head a bit as he tried to peek beneath the boy's fringe.

“Arthur.” He called, voice deceptively calm, mocked by his pounding heartbeat.

“Arthur, wake up.” Eames commanded more firmly, getting up and tilting Arthur's head back. He brushed away the strands from his forehead and tapped lightly on his cheek. Arthur was out cold and a ridiculously intense fear grasped Eames by the throat to the point he was unsure of whether he couldn't breathe or was about to throw up.

He looked so fucking pale, like a dea-.

Eames gulped, regaining some control over his panic and placed two fingers against the boy's throat, underneath his jaw.  
It was preposterous to think the boy had just magically died on him but it was still a possibility. One could never know what illnesses or subconscious monsters lied underneath smooth skin and bright eyes.

After another tap against his cheek, other hand fisted in the kid's hair to keep his head from lolling back down, Arthur's eyes flickered open.

“Eames.” He rasped when his eyes focused onto his face, he tugged his arms weakly, as if wanting to hug him.   
Eames shushed him, hiding his relief and the heavy pit in stomach which pulled down the corners of his mouth.

He leaned forward, pressing the boy's face into his shoulder while he started to untie the restraints on the kid's wrists. When his arms were free, they immediately rose up to wrap themselves around the man's neck. He could feel the boy tremble, head to toe, and when his teeth started to clatter, Eames realized what this was.

Arthur was in sub-drop. It wasn't uncommon, with endorphins and arousal coursing through your system, straining every single nerve and muscle and _thought,_ to collapse when the chemicals escaped your brain and left you empty, exhausted and utterly vulnerable.

It wasn't uncommon, no.

But it was bloody stupid of Eames to not have thought about this when leaving the kid alone after such an intense session of pleasure and pain. As his caretaker, his 'master' if you will, and even more so; his _lover_... Eames should have predicted the risk and high likability of this occurring.

Eames collected Arthur's frail body in his arms, chest swelling when he could feel the boy melt into his warmth with a pleased sigh and a cold nose nuzzling below his ear.

“Oh sweetheart.” Eames murmured into his hair, walking to the bed before lying him down and immediately crawling in next to him, pulling the duvet up to their ears.  
Arthur instinctively curled up against him and Eames rubbed his back to warm him up.

He'd get him food and water in a minute, but just now, in this rare moment, Eames just wanted to cherish him.  
Arthur always made him choke up, as if his presence alone seemed to push his head underneath the waterline and he kept drowning and drowning and his limbs refused to push himself back up to take a breath, a moment to cope.  
And Eames just didn't mind.  
If that's what death felt like, he'd embrace it with both arms and open heart.

He'd drown for Arthur, _by_ Arthur, if that's what he wanted.

* * *

 

 

Arthur had changed.

Eames could see it in the sagged line of his shoulders and the dimples which now almost always shadowed in his cheeks. His demeanor held no animosity. His eye was no longer cast amongst suspicion.

Arthur had settled.

They both had. It made Eames forget about the world outside, forget about his past and not foresee his future.  
But that was okay. Everything was okay now and would be for years, if lucky; decades.

Eames watched Arthur as they were seated underneath the Eifel tower which had lost more than half of its tip. The atmosphere was humid, flattering the midnight warmth.

Arthur was looking up at the stars. The broken state of the monument allowed both of them to see the sky through a web of metal bars. Nonetheless, Eames chose for his eyes to rest on the boy next to him as they both lied down on the warm asphalt.

Sometimes, more often than anyone would believe, Eames would feel his chest tighten and his throat clench whenever witnessing the kid's beauty and presence, the confrontation and realization that he was his' and visa versa.

It was obvious that he loved Arthur. He loved this young man in a way he'd never loved before or had even known of existing. It was a selfless infatuation, fueled with a need to make him happy, give him everything and anything his little heart would ever desire.

Eames wished he could give Arthur more... He wanted the boy to never doubt life and human kindness ever again. The kid had suffered long enough, had he not? His mind shouldn't be burdened by memorized facts and fearful expectations.

Arthur deserved so much more.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Eames blinked, gaze focusing on the boy's face. He was smiling, eyes half-lid and something about this took away the man's breath. Paris had been the best thing to happen to them. Paris had been the best thing for Arthur and inevitably, Eames.

Arthur reached out a hand when Eames didn't reply. His knuckles brushed over Eames' cheekbone, the movement strained and clumsy because of the odd angle of his arm. The man sighed, swallowing down the lump in his throat as he closed his eyes. He couldn't even handle seeing him anymore. Arthur made him want to shed tears because of all the right reasons and this thought alone was ridiculously preposterous.

Arthur shifted, his clothes rustling and hand turning until a warm palm cradled the man's stubbly jaw.

“Sometimes,” Arthur whispered in the silence around them. Eames opened his eyes to have his sight swallowed by the boy's dark irises framing widened pupils.

“- I try to remember what I was like... back then.” He confessed and Eames didn't need anything cleared up in order to understand what he meant. The life they had both lived had been dark, rough and downright hard. Many other's lives had been -or were still- like that and it took a toll on the strongest, devoured the weakest.

“And I can't.” Arthur frowned a bit, his eyes shifting over Eames' face, though it was obvious he wasn't really taking anything in as his mind worked rapidly.

“And when I realize I can't... I feel anxious... But then-” He blinked slowly, sight focused back on Eames' face.

“- I think I don't ever want to, you know, remember.”

Eames nodded, completely understanding the boy's need for renewal and his desire to put behind all that was behind him. The mind was a tricky thing, but as well was it incredibly strong-willed to the point it'd make itself forget and blur painful memories and instead force oneself to live in the now, look straight ahead.

“There's no need to.” Eames whispered back, placing a hand on top of Arthur's which was still on the man's jaw, thumb brushing cheekbone.

“Though the past shapes you, it does not define you. Hence, sometimes it is not of importance, especially when it holds you back.” Eames explained his own believes, watching the boy's eyes soften and his smile deepen.

“The future, Arthur, is in the now.” He squeezed his hand, allowing Arthur to read between the lines and noting it clicked when he started to blush.

“I wish my life could've started out with you. I wish you'd been in the now from beginning to end.” Arthur shyly added and Eames could feel himself burning up by the unfamiliar kindness, not to mention, openness.

“Maybe not from the beginning... But certainly from now to end.”

“Promise?” Arthur asked, his smile had disappeared and his face fell into a seriousness the man had seen so many times before. With a slight pout on his lips, Eames brushed a thumb between the boy's eyebrows, stroking away the worried-caused wrinkles.

“I promise.” He whispered and then, urged on by the bare-toothed grin and the glow on the kid's face, confidence hitting irrationality like a ten ton truck, desperation to stretch out 'the now' hammering him over the head;

“I love you.”

Arthur's smile dropped when Eames' words reached his ears, but he didn't get up, didn't so much as move a muscle. A couple of agonizing seconds followed in which Eames cursed himself and prayed for time to wind back and in which his heart was at a good pace to make itself explode in his chest.  
He got up, not daring to wait for the boy's reply. Not wanting to hear the rejection or the disgust.

Eames dusted off his trousers before mumbling over his shoulder that they should get home. His eyes did not dare meet Arthur. Perhaps for the better because the rest of the way home neither of them said another word.

And the now of which they'd spoken that night, desired to be left behind under the Eiffel tower.

* * *

  
  


Oddly enough their dynamic didn't change, though Arthur was more careful with his smiles and soft eyes. It was enough of a sign of rejection, nevertheless it could've gone much worse and Eames accepted the one-way love-street. At least they met at the corner at which love decreased yet appreciation withheld.

He'd take all he could get. Eames would be damned to throw it all away once again.

But then, sometimes that which you love was not thrown away, but rather taken from you.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank all of those who've been patient with me and awaited an update.  
> Though you're all a quiet lot, I appreciate you all.
> 
> Thanks again.


End file.
